


The Beginning of the End

by KathyG



Series: Angels at the End of Time [ON HOLD] [1]
Category: Touched by an Angel
Genre: Angels, End of the World, Gen, No Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-02
Updated: 2016-06-13
Packaged: 2018-07-11 19:24:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 71,765
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7066909
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KathyG/pseuds/KathyG
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What would Tess, Monica, Andrew, and Gloria do, if they found themselves during the end-times scenario prophesied in the Bible, prior to Jesus' Second Coming?  What kinds of assignments would they receive?  How would they handle their assignments?  This alternate-universe series, "Angels at the End of Time," is my attempt to answer that question, to surmise how the angels would handle the events of the Rapture and the Tribulation. </p><p>The first story in this ongoing series was written by Robin Day and myself. The rest, I am writing on my own.  At present, the series is still a WIP.</p><p>In story #1 of the end-times series--co-authored by Robin Day and myself--Tess, Monica, Andrew, and Gloria must help a family adjust to the Rapture and its aftermath and, at the same time, assist its members in making peace with God.  Can they get through to a stubborn, atheistic pilot and keep him from destroying his wife's newfound faith?  And can they save the wife's brother and his girlfriend from being deceived by their own boss--the Antichrist?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Even though we set this story in the late summer of 2002, in the still-immediate aftermath of 9-11, it was not our intent, in any way, to imply that God was going to take His church up in the Rapture at that time. As Jesus said in the Gospel of Matthew, "No one knoweth the day or the hour." Our choice of date was part of our story. In reality, it is now spring, 2016, and we are still here (it is my conviction that the Rapture is very close). Only God in Heaven knows just when.

A young man who appeared to be about 30 sat on his bed in the light-blue bedroom. The mattress sagged and creaked under him as he shifted his weight; a dark-blue flight bag sat open on the bed behind him. Slowly, he leaned forward and opened the middle drawer to his dresser. As he did, a shock of jet-black hair fell into his eye, which he hastily brushed away. 

Moving his hands quickly, he shoved through his already messy drawer to look for a shirt that he actually liked. Upon seeing his least favorite shirt--the red one with white polka-dots--the young man swore, clenching his fists. Why hadn’t he gotten rid of this shirt a long time ago? It was his least favorite pattern, and it was so old and worn-out! 

Suddenly, a voice called from down the hallway. “Richard? Where are you?” 

The young man sat up straight, revealing a full pilot's uniform. Somehow, it only enhanced his movie-star looks. It complemented his dark hair and tanned skin perfectly, making his blue eyes even more prominent. He turned toward the open doorway. He glanced at the window; a snow-white dove perched on the windowsill. Bright yellow rays streamed through the window, forming a rectangle of light on the carpeted floor. 

“In here, honey,” he called. 

A slim brunette entered the bedroom, relief etched on her face. Her dark-brown hair looked tousled, and her blouse rumpled; evidently she had just awakened from a nap. “Packing?” she asked, hiding a yawn. 

The young man nodded. “Yeah, I’ve got a flight to Italy today. I won’t be back until tomorrow morning.” 

Shaking her head, the young woman let out a long, worried sigh, then bit her lower lip. She rolled her eyes toward the ceiling. 

Unseen by the couple, four angels leaned against the wall. Tess, Andrew, Monica, and the newest angel, Gloria, watched the couple intently. 

Gloria gazed at them curiously, as she scribbled in her almost-full notebook. Each assignment was different and new to her, and she still had so much to learn about humans. “His name is Richard Daly,” she said. “Right?” She paused to push her glasses up her nose. 

Tess nodded. “Right, baby. The woman’s name is Christina, and they have a baby named Jessica. The Dalys are our assignments.” As the supervisor angel nodded toward the couple, her earrings shook sideways. Her diamond brooch sparkled in the sunlight. 

Gloria looked up at Tess, surprised at her briskness. “Tess…is something wrong?” 

Tess shook her head. “No, baby; all I know is that the Dalys are about to face some difficult circumstances. I’m not sure what, but I know we need to be ready.” 

Unaware of the angels’ presence, Richard rose to his feet. His shoes thudded softly as he circled around to the foot of his bed, approaching his wife. “Hey,” he said gently. “What’s wrong, sweetie?” 

Shaking her head, Christina said, “I just get a little worried about you every time you’re gone…” 

Richard took her into an embrace. “Listen, I’m gonna be OK No one will dare try another attack like that again.” 

Each angel knew instantly that the Dalys were talking about the attack on the World Trade Center the year before. Christina's mother, who had worked in Building Number 1 for years, had been killed in the attack. 

Christina let out a long sigh. “I know. It’s just…well, it's just that 9-11 really shook my faith in the safety of flying.” She stepped back to lay the cigarette in Richard’s ashtray. 

Richard’s temper flared for the briefest moment. “That’s the same attitude that nearly made me lose my job after the…” He clenched his fists as he spoke. 

Christina held up her hand. “I know, I know.” Irritation crept into her voice. “But don’t people have a right to be afraid to fly now? I mean, September 11th did prove that flying can be dangerous, did it not?” 

Richard crossed his arms, his blue eyes flashed. “Listen, Christina! It proved _living_ can be dangerous, regardless of whether you fly or not. The people who were in that building died, too!” He winced as tears welled up in his wife's eyes, and let his arms drop to his sides. “I'm sorry. I forgot about your mom. But still--!” He clenched his fists again. 

Christina flopped down onto a sitting position on the bed. “I’m sorry, too,” she said. “I don’t know what got into me.” Shaking her head, she twisted a few strands of hair around her fingers, while pushing her hand against the silky-soft bedspread. 

Richard let out a long sigh, trying to defuse his own anger. For a long moment, he just stood gazing down at his wife. “Christina, that’s not like you.” 

Christina was once again snippy. “What’s not like me?” 

Richard responded quickly. “Your snippiness. You’re not normally this way.” 

Without warning, Christina put her head into her hands and burst into tears. “Oh--oh, Richard!” She took a deep, shuddering breath. 

Richard quickly spun around and sat beside her. “Christina?” he said gently as he sat. “What’s wrong, sweetie?” 

Christina managed to speak through her tears. “I’m so sorry, Richard. I don’t know what’s gotten into me recently.” She bit her lip. “Maybe I do. Mom’s been dead for almost a year now, and it still hurts. And now--and _now_ \--!” Her voice choked. 

Richard tenderly put his arm around his wife. “Maybe everything you've been putting up with is finally getting to you. Me being a pilot, your brother being a pilot--we’re both gone so much of the time. Losing your mom the way you did, and Jessica’s colic. All of that's more than any woman should be expected to handle sanely.” 

Before Christina could respond, a loud noise interrupted them. “Waaa-aaaaahhhh!” 

Without thinking, she laughed. “Speaking of Jessica,” she said. Richard nodded agreement, shaking his head. 

Silently, Christina stood up and trudged out of the room, leaving Richard to finish his packing. “When is that baby gonna quit her squalling?” he grumbled, laying his folded pajamas in the flight bag. “Gets on my nerves!” He slammed the lid shut and locked it. 

As the angels watched, Gloria couldn’t help but comment. “How can you be snippy, and not know why?” She furrowed her eyebrows in puzzlement. 

“Well,” Monica began, “it’s called having a bad day. I had one once.” 

Andrew responded to both of their comments. “I wish that was the case here,” he said, confusing the two young female angels. A sad, somber expression clouded his face. 

“So do I.” Tess sounded grim. She clasped her hands in front of her waist as she spoke. 

Seeing the looks on Monica and Gloria's faces, Andrew continued. “Adam and I just got word from Sam that something big's about to happen.” He folded his arms across his chest. “I have no idea what and neither does Sam, but Adam’s edgy about it too.” 

Gloria, in her innocence, asked another question. “Not you? Other angels of death are edgy about it--some humans are edgy about it--but not you?” 

Andrew shrugged. “Sort of. After last September, I’m always worried when we hear something big’s going to happen. But, I guess I’m more worried about individuals, not entire nations. The world has some strong leaders.” Putting his hands in his pocket, the angel of death looked at the door Christina had just exited through. “And speaking of individuals, I'll never forget taking Evelyn Whittaker, Christina's mother, Home that day. Her faith was so strong, and she was so excited to be going Home.” 

Tess nodded agreement. “Unfortunately, Christina's never been able to recover from her loss. And now, more bad times are coming her way. She senses that in her spirit--that's why she's so edgy--and although he's afraid to acknowledge it, so does Richard. Christina's going to need much help in the days ahead--she, her husband, and her brother, too.” 

“And the baby?” Gloria asked softly. Tess shrugged, glancing at the windowsill. At that moment, the dove spread its wings and flew off. Richard grasped his flight bag and left the room.


	2. Chapter 1

Richard reclined in the cockpit of the huge jet liner. His first officer had not arrived yet, so Richard had the cockpit to himself. Leaning back in his seat, he closed his eyes to protect them from the glare of the sun, as he wondered what his wife was doing right at that moment. The soft cushion lining the pilot’s chair creaked slightly as he shifted position. 

As he reached his hand upward to rub his dark hair, he smiled. Agreeing to let his friend, Ryan Whittaker, set him up on a blind date with his little sister was one of the smartest things Richard had ever done. Christina had made Richard feel comfortable and at ease from the moment they first laid eyes on each other, despite the fact that she was nearly five years his junior. 

But that was ancient history now. They'd been married for nearly five years, and they had a sweet little baby whose first birthday was approaching fast. Richard, for his part, had a well-paying job that he loved. Life was perfect--or almost. Richard clenched his right fist as he remembered the tragedy that had befallen the nation on September 11th. He had watched the entire world reel from the attack, but he had also been touched by the personal grief shared by his wife and brother-in-law. Only his own grief at his sister’s murder, years before, had matched or surpassed Christina’s grief at the loss of her mother. 

It had been almost a year since the horrible terrorists’ attack that had claimed so many lives, yet his job as a pilot still made Christina nervous. Richard saw no need for such fear, though. No one would ever attempt that atrocity again--he was sure of it. He wished that Christina could get over her fear; after 11 months, one would think she could begin to recover. She still feared for his safety, and she still grieved for her mother. Thus far, there had been no further terrorist attacks, but lately, Christina had seemed to have a premonition that something terrible was going to happen. 

As he opened his eyes, he frowned. A dove was perching on the airplane’s nose in front of the windshield. _That little bird better take off if it knows what’s good for it,_ he thought, frowning. He wasn’t overly fond of birds, but neither did he relish the thought of killing yet another one with his aircraft, as so often happened. 

As Richard rubbed his hands on the front of his uniform, he tried to lose himself in a day-dream, hoping he could manage to avoid talking to his first officer, Timothy Hill, when he arrived. Richard’s efforts to escape into his own inner world failed, however. Instead of picturing a blue sky with fluffy clouds floating past the plane, all he could see was the runway that loomed ahead of the windshield, the sun hurting his eyes from the sky’s far left, and the dove on the nose of the airplane, turning its little head this way and that. Any moment now, Timothy would walk in and Richard would be forced to deal with him. How he dreaded that! 

Desperately, Richard tried to focus on anything but what was really happening around him. Still, he couldn't do it quickly enough--a familiar thud grabbed his attention. Timothy strode into the cockpit. 

Richard let out a long sigh. Until the previous September, Timothy had been a pretty nice guy, easy to get along with. Then, a week after 9-11, he had gotten on some religious kick and hadn't been the same since. Ever since Timothy had become a Christian, Richard had done his best to ignore his first officer, but Timothy had always been the type to talk to everyone about something if it was important enough, and obviously he thought religion was important. 

“What happened on September 11th was a wake-up call for the nation, Richard,” he would say. “I, for one, had to respond to that call.” Richard would just shake his head in irritation. 

Now, Timothy hung his pilot cap on a nail next to his head. “Hi, Captain Daly,” he greeted. 

Richard wanted to ignore him, but Timothy, he knew, wasn't one to accept being ignored. “Hi,” Richard said, hoping his tone would give away he was in no mood for another one of Timothy's endless sermons. 

In the back of his mind, Richard knew he was exaggerating Timothy's faith, but sometimes that was just how it felt. Even when Timothy wasn't saying anything, his eyes preached a sermon of their own. 

Timothy thumbed his nose at the windshield. “What’s that dove doing there?” 

Richard shrugged. “Stopped to rest, I guess. It better take off, soon, because in a few minutes, so are we.” 

With a chuckle, Timothy removed his Bible from his flight bag. For a few moments, the two pilots settled into an uncomfortable silence. Richard rubbed his hair backwards as he gritted his teeth. He stared at the dove, wondering if he was going to have to risk killing it to take the jet liner into the air. _If it dies, it’ll be its own fault,_ he thought. 

When Richard finally looked at his first officer, he nearly laughed aloud. Timothy, leaning sideways, was gazing at the Bible’s blue cover, evidently trying to decide where to start reading. Bookmarks stuck out of the top in various places. Choosing one near the back cover, Timothy flipped open his Bible. 

Clenching his fists, Richard let out another sigh. Timothy glanced up. “You OK?” he asked. 

Richard tried to hold his temper under control. Taking a deep breath, he pressed his clenched fists against his sides. “You know, Timothy, I'd really appreciate it if you didn't rub your religion in my face like that. You know my opinions about God.” The mattress creaked softly as he shifted. 

Timothy's eyebrows raised. His blue eyes betrayed a hint of confusion. “I was rubbing my religion in your face? How?” 

Richard rolled his eyes, knowing he wasn't giving the guy a fair chance. Still, Timothy could be too much at times. “You just…” Richard paused, wondering how he could justify his accusation. “You’re constantly reading the Bible...right in front of me. It's like you’re trying to rub in my face the fact that I'm not like you.” 

Timothy was caught off-guard, but only his eyes showed it. “Richard, that's not what I'm trying to do. You should know me better than that. Yes, I _am_ a Christian, and yes, I would like to see you become a one, too, but I'm not rubbing it in your face. I'm just continuing my reading from last night; I'm not trying to make you feel bad because you're different from me.” 

Richard let out a long sigh. “I'm sorry Timothy...it's just…” Richard struggled for what to say. Finally, he blurted out an excuse that he knew would only be effective in changing the angle of the conversation. “I've got a lot on my mind.” 

Timothy gazed at Richard, concerned. Richard hated looking into Timothy's eyes. It gave him a creepy feeling, as if Timothy was looking through him. “What?” Timothy asked, real concern in his voice. 

Richard decided to confide in Timothy about something that had been bothering him for weeks. “I'm afraid I've been neglecting Christina,” he blurted, wondering if getting Timothy off his back about religion was worth spilling all his concerns to the man. 

Timothy twisted in his seat to face Richard. His eyes locked on his co-pilot‘s. “What do you mean?” he asked. 

“I mean…” Richard paused again, to collect his thoughts. “I just think that my job is taking me away from Christina and Jessica too much. Not that I'd give flying up for anything...but I just don't think I'm spending enough time with them.” He rubbed his right hand on his uniform as he spoke. 

Timothy smiled. “I know what you mean.” Timothy tilted his left hand, making his wedding ring flash in the sunlight bathing the cockpit. 

Richard grinned. It was the one and only thing he had in common with his first officer. They were both married. Timothy continued speaking. “Sometimes I worry I'm spending too much time in the air. That's when I set aside one day I know I don't have to go anywhere on, and I spend it with my family.” 

Richard thought about the prospect. Without thinking about it, Richard said, “But you've never used flying to escape.” 

Timothy's eyebrows raised. Richard suddenly realized that he'd said too much. Without saying a word, Richard exited the cockpit. 

Timothy glanced upwards, and prayed quickly, “Help him,” before returning to pre-flight checks. To his relief, the dove spread its wings and flew upward. Timothy watched as it flew out of sight. 

**_______________________________**

Christina Daly felt the small lurch indicating that the taxi had stopped. She raised her head to see where she was. Good--she was there! 

Without looking down, Christina un-buckled herself with one hand while opening her purse with the other. It took less than a minute to withdraw and open her wallet, hand a ten-dollar bill to the driver, close her wallet, and shove it back into her purse. 

Christina hurriedly thanked the driver as she opened the door and turned in her seat. Stepping out of the taxi, Christina shut the door firmly behind her, hoping it wouldn't slam. To her relief, it didn't. 

As the taxi took off, Christina patted her hair, then craned her neck to see what was there. So far, all she saw was an empty, rectangular hollowed-out basement, now devoid of dirt or equipment. Would the World Trade Center be rebuilt, or would the city build a memorial in its place? 

_I hope they’ll rebuild the place,_ she thought. As she always did at this time of day, Christina reached into her purse and pulled out the sketch diary. Flipping through the pictures she'd been drawing for the last several months, Christina scanned the clearing away of debris, captured in her drawings. 

Today, she could see no difference between the sight now and the sight as it had appeared when the cleanup crew had finished clearing away the debris, in June. She patted her hair and sighed. 

Her shoes clicked as she strolled down the concrete sidewalk, crowded with pedestrians also curious about the city’s plans for Ground Zero. Christina wondered if she was going to be able to get anywhere today…but it was no worse than any other time she needed a change of angle. She hoped she’d be able to get a good view of the site as it still looked, now. 

Christina heard mumblings all around her. “Why would they want to rebuild on the same spot? It would be like rebuilding on a graveyard!” 

“Well, they should. That would show that America won't sit back and take destruction from anyone!” 

Christina chuckled. At times like this, she wished she was a reporter, so she could have an excuse to ask everyone she saw their thoughts. As Christina walked, she recalled Richard's reaction, earlier that summer, to the news that the city was deliberating whether to rebuild the World Trade Center... 

_“I don't like it, Christina! It sickens me that they even plan to discuss such things! Those who want to rebuild the place have no respect for the people who died!” Her husband clenched his fists till his knuckles had turned white._

_Christina shook her head. “What about the people who lost their jobs? They need to get them back.”_

_Richard glared at her. “You, of all people, would say that! There are tons of people that haven’t been found! Their remains might still be there! It's a graveyard!” He folded his arms as he spoke._

_Christina flinched. Then, gritting her teeth, she forced herself to respond calmly. A calm response, she knew, would drive her husband nuts for a few minutes, but in the long run, it would defuse his anger. “Richard, I can't imagine a greater tribute to my mom than having buildings raised, just to prove to the people who killed her that America isn't a country to lie down and accept defeat in any area!”..._

Unable to come to an agreement, Christina and Richard had finally agreed to disagree and not let it affect their relationship. Since then, Christina had enjoyed her daily visits to what was formerly known as Ground Zero. She had watched the cleanup crew clear away the debris, little by little, until nothing remained but empty concrete. If and when the rebuilding commenced, she fully intended to draw pictures of the new buildings’ progress. 

Suddenly, someone thudded against Christina’s back. Turning quickly to apologize, Christina lost her balance. Before her mind had time to register, Christina's bottom and her right elbow slammed against the pavement. “Ow!” she moaned. 

The impact had knocked the sketch book out of her hand and the purse from the crook of her arm. Christina reeled from the impact. She clutched her aching elbow, moaning. 

A voice interrupted her not-quite-collected thoughts. “Oh! No, no, no, no.” 

Looking up, Christina saw a young woman who appeared to be in her late 20s or early 30's; her long, brownish-red hair hung over her face, trailing against the ground. She was kneeling on all fours, searching for something. As she pushed herself upward into a sitting position, a white blouse, tucked into pants, appeared under her jacket. The jackets matched the woman’s pants. 

Shifting her gaze from the woman to the sidewalk, Christina noticed that her purse had fallen open and its contents had spilled all over the concrete. Among the items on the ground lay a pair of black-rimmed glasses, that clearly wasn’t hers. Christina braced her hands against the hot, rough surface of the sidewalk as she pushed herself into a crouch. 

“Looking for these?” Christina questioned the young woman, who looked up at her with an almost panicked expression. Christina laid a hand on the eyeglasses. Relief flooded her face, and a beaming smile followed. 

“Yes!” the woman exclaimed, reaching for the glasses. “Thank you.” 

“You’re welcome, and I'm sorry,” Christina said. 

“It's O.K,” the woman responded. She slid the glasses onto her nose as she spoke. “I’m sorry for bumping into you. Are you all right?” 

“I think so.” Christina rubbed her elbow as she spoke. 

The two women struggled to their feet. Christina paused to gaze at the building again. For a moment, she looked down at her sketch diary, still lying on the pavement, and bit her lip. “It's just that I was looking at Ground Zero; that's why I didn't see you. I've been coming here, every chance I get, to watch the crew clear the wreckage away. Now I just come here sometimes to see how it looks, now that they’re done.” She paused, twisting strands of her hair around her index finger, and words she hadn't meant to speak suddenly poured out of her. “My mother worked on the 102nd floor of Tower One, and--I don't know--I guess I just need to do this.” 

“You hope watching its progress will be healing?” The woman tilted her head as she spoke. Christina nodded. 

The woman put a comforting hand on Christina's shoulder for a moment as they stood in silence for a moment, surrounded by pedestrians who passed them on both sides. Cars and other vehicles roared up and down the street. Finally, Christina looked at her feet and glanced at the other people. “Look, we need to get this stuff off the ground before people start complaining about walking around us.” 

The woman agreed, and the two women knelt to re-fill Christina's purse. “My name is Gloria.” The woman picked up a tube of lipstick as she spoke, and dumped it into the open purse. 

“I'm Christina.” Christina shoved a handful of small items back into her purse. “Christina Daly.” She smiled. “Pleased to meet you.” 

When they had stuffed everything into Christina’s purse, they stood up. Slowly, Christina turned back toward the empty basement facility. Opening it, Christina scribbled that day’s date in the bottom left-hand corner of the page, then began to sketch a new picture of the empty basement. It looked exactly as it had when she had last sketched it. 

“You’re a good artist.” Gloria glanced at the picture as she spoke. “I wish I could draw that well.” Admiration welled in her voice. 

Christina chuckled. “Thanks, Gloria. It just takes a little practice.” 

Gloria quoted a commonly heard adage. “Practice makes perfect?” 

Christina just nodded, intent on finishing the quick sketch. After a moment, she slammed the sketch pad shut and said, “I’m sorry for shutting you out like that Gloria. I just…need to make these drawings.” She laughed ruefully. 

Running her fingers along the frame of her glasses, Gloria smiled. “I understand.” 

For an instant, Christina actually believed Gloria actually understood. Her smile was so sincere, so innocent, that you couldn't believe that she'd even exaggerate her empathy. Gloria tilted her head as she nodded in response. 

Maybe it was the smile, or maybe it was the fact that she’d already started pouring her heart out to this woman, but Christina found herself telling Gloria many things no one except Richard and Ryan knew about her. 

“I’m worried about my husband,” she began. “He’s a pilot, and I’m always worried these fanatics will try again to do what they did last September…and that Richard will be the pilot.” Her voice trembled. 

Gloria began to speak, but Christina had started to open up, and she couldn't stop. “When my mom died, I thought it was the end of the world. I mean--losing my mom…” Her voice broke. “And lately--well, lately, I can’t help feeling that something terrible’s going to happen again.” 

Christina fought tears. She didn’t want to cry, not at this moment! Biting her lip, Christina hoped Gloria wouldn't urge her to go on; she’d already said more than she'd meant to. She shook her head from side to side. 

To Christina’s relief, Gloria didn't push her to continue. Instead, she put a comforting hand on Christina's shoulder. A gentle squeeze followed. 

“Thank you.” Christina faced her new friend. She plastered a smile on her face. “Listen, would you like a cup of coffee?” 

Christina didn't have to wonder why she had asked that. Gloria had helped her get lots of things off her chest that she'd been needing to get into the open for a long time, so the least she could do was buy Gloria a cup of coffee. 

With a tilt of her head, Gloria shrugged. “Sure. That would be nice.” 

Christina’s face broke into a wide smile. “Come on. I know of a nice coffee shop just down the street.” 

With that, the two of them began walking down the sidewalk again. A moment later, Christina led the way into a small coffee shop, wedged between two other buildings. 

**_______________________________**

Richard walked down the aisle of the first-class section, past the rows of passengers dressed in business suits and dresses; his boots thudded softly on the soft carpet. He only had a few minutes before he would have to announce take-off. As the passengers settled themselves in their seats, Richard scanned the crowd, looking for a familiar face, shading his eyes to protect them from the flood of sunlight pouring through the windows on the left. 

Towards the back, Richard saw his brother-in-law, Ryan Whittaker, and smiled broadly. _Good,_ he thought, _maybe I can say hello to him before we take off._ He dropped his hands to his side. 

“Captain Daly?” An Irish voice startled him. Seconds later, a young flight attendant who appeared to be roughly his own age stepped in front of him. She had reddish-brown hair that was twisted up into the required bun, and a slender figure. Earrings studded with pearls dangled from her ear lobes. A soft light of caring and love emanated from her chocolate-brown eyes, startling Richard. 

“Yes?” he responded. 

The Irish woman clasped her hands in front of her waist. “First Officer Hill asked me to get you. Pre-flight is wrapping up and the plane can’t take off without you.” 

Richard clenched his fists briefly, but forced himself to relax. Timothy Hill was the last person he wanted to see right now. The man probably thought he'd made some progress with Richard's “salvation,” a word Richard had never understood, nor had any desire to understand. 

“Thank you…” he said half-heartedly, not sure what he was thanking her for. With a quick glance at her name tag, he made his thanks more personal. “...Monica. You new here?” 

Nodding, Monica smiled, reminding Richard of Christina’s smile. He wondered briefly if Christina might be smiling at that same moment. He dismissed the thought; it was crazy. 

“Well, thanks again.” He touched his cap as he spoke, and turned to go. 

“You’re welcome,” she said sincerely. 

With a sigh, Richard returned to the cockpit. So much for talking to his brother-in-law before the flight. Oh well, there would be another opportunity during the flight. _Anything to avoid Timothy,_ he thought, frowning. 

Richard slipped through the cockpit door. Timothy seemed focused on the pre-flight procedures. Without a word, Richard sat down and quickly strapped himself in. Then he pressed the intercom button. 

“Ladies and gentlemen, this is your Captain, Richard Daly, speaking. Welcome aboard Pan-World flight 87.” 

Richard paused for a moment and looked at Timothy. Nodding, Timothy flashed three fingers, and Richard continued speaking. “We are scheduled to take off in three minutes, and will arrive at Fiumicino International Airport at 3:30 a.m., Italian Time. We will be flying at an altitude of 38,000 feet. The cabin will be pressurized for your comfort. If an emergency occurs, oxygen masks will drop in front of you. In case of air sickness, there are bags in the back of the seat in front of you. The crew’s final instruction to you is to fasten your seatbelts until we are in the air. And once again, thank you for flying Pan-World airways.” 

Richard released the intercom button; he shook his head from side to side, to ease the tension. He always hated making that announcement. Most people on his flights were routine flyers and knew most of the information he'd given. Nevertheless, each flight always had a quota, no matter how small, of people who had never flown before or who rarely flew, and he had to keep giving that information for their sakes. 

Sighing, Richard turned toward the instrument panel. Without a word, he began pressing the necessary buttons and levers to get the plane going. Within minutes, the jet liner was taxiing down the runway; shortly afterward, it rose into the air. _I hope Timothy will keep his mouth shut till we touch down in Italy,_ he thought, as he set the instrument panel on auto-pilot. Leaning back, he rubbed his hands on the front of his uniform. 

**_______________________________**

Christina couldn't believe how comfortable she felt around Gloria. She could talk to Gloria with an ease she could muster with very few people, save close loved ones. Christina had shared more about herself in the last half-hour than she had ever shared with anyone else, except her immediate family. 

Gloria had only added small bits and peaces of information about herself. She told Christina about several close friends of hers, whose names were Monica, Tess, and Andrew. She shared some of her experiences in the past year or so, but nothing before that. Next to their table, the sunlight flooded their side of the room, forming squares of light on the linoleum floor. 

It didn’t worry Christina that her new friend kept her own past a secret. She was just relieved to have a friend to talk to, who would actually listen. She had been so lonely since her mother’s death, and Richard and Ryan’s long and frequent absences had made it worse. Jessica filled her world, to be sure, and gave it meaning, but a baby was not much company. 

The whole thing struck Christina as strange. Why was she able to talk to this stranger so well? And why this newfound silliness? Despite the seriousness their conversation often took, they had joked with each other frequently. 

“Did you know Monica is a coffee addict?” Gloria asked thoughtfully, as a waitress refilled her Styrofoam cup. Christina nearly fell out of her hard-backed chair. Gloria had described Monica as a good friend who was like both a sister and a mother to her at the same time. Christina had the same kind of relationship with her older brother, Ryan Whittaker. 

“So’s Ryan!” Christina shrieked to her new friend. Gloria knew how similar the descriptions they’d been giving of Ryan and Monica had been. Gloria’s mouth dropped open, and suddenly, the two women burst into uncontrollable peels of laughter. Christina shoved the tip of her stub of a cigarette against the cigarette ashtray, then pressed her fingers against the table’s smooth surface. She glanced out the window at the cars passing them up and down the street, and the strolling pedestrians. 

Without warning, Gloria's hand bumped her coffee cup. They stopped laughing for a moment, just long enough to watch the contents of the cup spill all over the table and drip in a steady stream onto the floor. 

Both women's eyes widened. As if of the same mind, they both turned to the napkin dispenser on the far end of their table. Arming themselves with handfuls of napkins, Christina and Gloria paused to glance at each other. Without a word, Christina knelt on the floor and wiped up the puddle of coffee at her feet, as Gloria tackled the mess on the table. 

Only after they’d cleaned the whole table, and thrown the napkins in the trash, did they see the humor in the near-disaster. After only seconds of being in their seats, they burst out laughing. 

“We’re just lucky it didn't spill on either of us,” Christina said. 

Gloria nodded, and pulled Christina's cup towards the middle of the table to avoid another spill. Christina shifted position on the chair’s unyielding wooden seat. 

Both women once again burst into uncontrollable laughter. Christina felt like a teenager again with Gloria around. The kind of person who had no responsibilities and got a good laugh out of anything. Giggling, Gloria rubbed her fingers against the table’s surface. 

Christina's eyes widened at that thought. Responsibilities? _Jessica!_ Christina had left Jessica with a babysitter, and if she wasn't back soon the babysitter would begin to worry. 

“Oh, no!” Christina said aloud. 

“What?” Gloria asked, her voice sobering instantly. 

“I left my baby with a sitter,” Christina said. “And I have to get back home.” She shook her head. “I’m sorry, Gloria. Thanks for the absolutely wonderful afternoon.” 

As Christina leaped to her feet and snatched her purse, her mind was too pre-occupied with the thoughts of the babysitter’s panic to think about even finding a way to stay in contact with her new friend. Grasping her own purse, Gloria rose from her seat at the coffee shop and followed Christina toward the cash register. After Christina paid for their coffee, they hurried toward the entrance. 

“Want a ride?” Gloria asked, as they reached the glass door. 

Christina stopped suddenly, and turned to face Gloria. “That would be great.” Then, a broad smile crossed her face. A brilliant idea had just occurred to her. 

“Uh, Gloria…” Christina spoke slowly, deliberately drawing out the name so as to make it clear she had an idea. “How would you like to spend the night?” 

Before Gloria could answer, Christina began babbling. “I mean, with Richard and my brother out of town for the night, and the fact that I haven’t had company in forever, it would really be wonderful if you could come. I’m actually a pretty good cook and we can have dinner, then act like we're a couple of kids on a slumber party and--and, well…” 

Although she hated to do so, Gloria interrupted. “I’d love to.” 

Christina’s babbling ceased, and Gloria gestured towards a gleaming red Cadillac convertible parked less than 50 yards from the door. “Come on. That's Tess’ car. She’s letting me borrow it.” 

Christina's eyebrows raised. It seemed oddly coincidental that the car happened to be parked less than 50 yards from the coffee shop, but she didn’t say so. Instead, she laughed. 

“No wonder you offered to give me a ride. Any excuse to drive that thing, right?” 

Gloria chuckled and nodded. Without a word, she led the way toward the red convertible. _This ought to be fun!_ Christina thought. 

**_______________________________**

Richard leaned back in the pilot’s seat. Now that the plane was on auto-pilot at the moment, he and Timothy had some time to relax. Richard just hoped Timothy wouldn’t take the opportunity to preach to him or get him to open up again. 

Even though the silence was welcome to him, Richard wasn’t used to it. Timothy was deeply engrossed in his Bible reading. Richard couldn't help but wonder how on earth the man could understand that book, let alone enjoy it. Only the occasional turning of oilskin pages and the steady hum of the engine broke the silence. 

Once, Richard pulled out his wallet and glanced at a picture he’d carried around with him for years. A 14-year-old girl with long, flowing blond hair that framed her shoulders and a bright, dimpled smile spanned the picture. Richard bit his lip as he looked at her. Her cruel death had devastated him, and totally hardened his heart against God. Surely, if there was a God, He wouldn’t allow innocent young girls like Nicole Daly to be kidnapped and murdered! 

_Guess that’s what I’m trying to escape,_ he thought. _The memories. It hurts me, even today, to remember her. I, of all people, ought to understand Christina and Ryan’s grief! After all, their mother was cruelly murdered too, along with over 3,000 other people._ He bit his lower lip again. _Sometimes I think if I could fly long enough and far enough, I could outrun the pain. Wish I could!_ He shook his head. 

He pressed his lips into a tight line as he folded the wallet and shoved it back into his pocket. He couldn’t stand to look at Nicole’s photo for more than a few minutes at a time. Timothy, still engrossed in his Bible reading, did not look up. 

As irritation surged in his heart, Richard rose to his feet. “I'm gonna go take a walk.” Timothy nodded to indicate that he had heard. 

Rubbing his hands on the front of his uniform, Richard slowly exited the cockpit. His boots thudded on the soft carpet. He wanted to have a talk with his brother-in-law before the flight ended. It had mildly surprised Richard to see Ryan in first class--normally Ryan flew tourist class, when he rode as a passenger. 

As Richard walked among the first-class passengers, he noticed varied responses. Some turned and glanced in his direction; others just continued with what they were doing. When Richard reached Ryan’s seat, he halted. 

“Hey, Ryan,” Richard said simply. 

Ryan smiled at his brother-in-law and best friend. “I was wondering when you’d step out and ask what’s up.” 

It was only then when Richard noticed something indeed different about Ryan. He was wearing a dark blue business suit, an outfit he normally detested. Richard raised his eyebrows. 

To anyone who didn’t know Ryan’s taste in clothes, they wouldn't think it unusual to see him wearing a suit. But to Richard, who knew Ryan was a casual dresser, the image was almost comical. 

“What’s up with the outfit?” Richard asked. 

On cue, Ryan reached to loosen his tie. “Antonio Puccini,” he answered simply. 

At Richard's confused look, Ryan gave more information. “He’s the new Italian president. You probably heard about that on the news. He’s looking for a pilot to fly his private plane...and guess who got nominated?” 

Richard guessed instantly. It was all too obvious from Ryan's tone. “You.” 

Ryan nodded. “Well, now, Puccini’s asking to meet with me. Not that I blame the guy...I mean, if I trusted my life with someone I’d want to get to know that person myself." 

Richard thought back to Timothy in the cockpit. A jolt raced through his system. In a way, he was trusting Timothy Hill with _his_ life. For a moment, the thought unnerved him. It shouldn’t, he knew--Timothy had always been a dependable, reliable, skilled pilot, and turning into a religious nut hadn't changed that. With effort, Richard put it out of his mind as Ryan continued. 

“But then, Puccini--or his people--bought me a first-class ticket, and I just knew I’d stick out like a sore thumb in my normal clothes. So I had to go and buy this--” Grimacing, Ryan gestured to his suit and tie. “--straightjacket and noose.” 

Laughing at his brother-in-law’s description of a business suit and tie, Richard patted him on the shoulder. “You’ll get use to them after a while,” Richard assured him. 

Ryan rolled his eyes. “Yeah, sure! Like I really want to.” 

An uneasy feeling welled up in Richard’s gut. To distract himself, Richard forced a chuckle out of his throat. “Well, I gotta get back to the cockpit. I don't want to leave the thing on auto-pilot all the way to Rome.” He removed his pilot’s cap to run his fingers through his hair as he spoke. 

Ryan nodded. “Yeah, and I’ve got to make a call.“ He pulled his cell phone from his pants pocket as he spoke. 

Putting the cap back on his head, Richard headed back to the cockpit. Although he had enjoyed talking to his best friend for the first time in months, he couldn't shake that nagging feeling. Christina had been right to be nervous. Something bad _was_ going to happen. But what? He shook it out of his mind as he returned to the cockpit. 

**_______________________________**

Timothy Hill leaned back in the co-pilot seat. He was grateful for the autopilot that allowed the plane to run on its own. It gave him a chance to read his Bible without Richard harping on him about "rubbing religion in his face." 

The cushioned seat creaked as he shifted position. He flipped the pages, pausing when he reached the 24th chapter of Matthew. The sunlight flooding the cabin bathed his seat, giving him plenty of light to read by. 

Normally, reading his Bible comforted Timothy, making him feel like he was wrapped in a Heavenly embrace that gave him the confidence to fly. Today though, the words on the pages sent chills up and down his spine. 

_"No one knows about that day or hour, not even the angels in heaven, nor the Son, but only the Father. As it was in the days of Noah, so it will be at the coming of the Son of Man,”_ he read silently. Pausing to swallow, he then continued. _“For in the days before the flood, people were eating and drinking, marrying and giving in marriage, up to the day Noah entered the ark, and they knew nothing about what would happen until the flood came and took them all away. That is how it will be at the coming of the Son of Man. Two men will be in the field; one will be taken and the other left. Two women will be grinding with a hand mill; one will be taken, and the other left.”_ Timothy paused again--this time to raise his eyes--then continued. 

_“Therefore keep watch, because you do not know on what day your Lord will come. But understand this. If the owner of the house had known at what time of night the thief would be coming, he would have kept watch and would not have let his house be broken in to. So you must also be ready because the Son of Man will come at an hour when you do not expect him.”_

Timothy stared at the page. He had read this passage on numerous occasions, but something was different about it this time. Somehow, it felt more real. _The Lord’s going to come for His own any time now,_ he thought. _I know I’m going to be caught up, but what about Richard?_ He bit his lower lip. 

Timothy had a sick feeling in his stomach that wouldn’t go away. He felt an intense need to pray, but for what, he didn't know. Still, he’d learned to obey these urges, so, staring down at his Bible, he began to pray silently. After a few minutes, he felt the now-familiar contact with his Heavenly Father that always comforted him. 

The familiar thud of Richard’s boots signaled the pilot’s return; a few seconds later, the cockpit door swung open behind Timothy. Looking over his shoulder, he saw Richard walk in. With a frown, Richard cleared his throat. 

Timothy suddenly realized that he was praying for Richard. Sitting up straight, he closed his Bible. “Have a nice walk?” 

With a nod, Richard took his seat. “My brother-in-law’s on this flight,” he said. “He's going to see the new president of Italy. Antonio Something.” He rubbed the front of his uniform, then stretched his arms above his head. 

Timothy remembered hearing about the change of authority in Italy on the news a few weeks ago. “Puccini.” 

“Yeah!” Richard exclaimed. “Antonio Puccini.” He paused for a moment. “Sounds like a vegetable,” he commented, pulling a handkerchief out of his pants pocket. 

Timothy couldn’t help but chuckle. Richard was definitely right on that one. “I couldn’t agree more,” Timothy said. Chuckling with him, Richard wiped his face, then folded his handkerchief and stuffed it back into his pocket. The soft mattress creaked under him as he leaned back in his chair. Timothy closed his eyes and prayed silently for his friend. 

**_______________________________**

_“Herbie Rides Again?”_ Gloria scanned the row of Christina and Richard's videocassettes as she spoke. Next to her, Christina shook her head. 

“Nah.” 

_“Casablanca?”_ Gloria rubbed her fingers on the top of the cover. 

Frowning, Christina vetoed that movie. “Sorry, I’ve never liked Humphrey Bogart.” 

_“All Dogs Go to Heaven?”_

“Let's not.” 

_“Star Wars?”_ Gloria pushed her glasses up the bridge of her nose. 

Christina hesitated. “Uh, let's not watch that yet, OK? That's more Richard’s thing.” She paused. “He loves the _Star Wars_ movies for the flight scenes. Being a pilot, that excites him.” 

Gloria laughed. _“The Absent-Minded Professor?”_

Christina bit her lip. “Mmmmm, no.” She twisted a strand of her hair around her index finger and shook her head. 

_“The Sound of Music?”_

“Too long.” 

_“The Swiss Family Robinson?”_

Christina chuckled. “I can never eat popcorn when I watch that movie.” 

Gloria smiled. Ever since one of her previous assignments had introduced her to popcorn, she had loved that snack food. She hoped that Christina would offer her some. 

_"Dark Victory?"_ Christina made a face. _“That Darn Cat?”_

Christina beamed. “I _love_ that movie!” 

Gloria let out a long sigh of relief. She’d been crouched on her heels by the TV stand for the past several minutes, and had gone over nearly half of the Dalys’ video collection. Christina had knelt beside her for the whole time, commenting on each video as Gloria pulled it out. 

The sigh knocked Gloria off-balance and onto her bottom. The videotape flew out of Gloria's hand, and right into Christina's lap. 

Both women burst into uncontrollable giggles. They rose to their feet as they laughed. 

“Here.” Christina managed, through her giggles, to hand the video to Gloria. “You put the movie in; I'll get the popcorn, OK?” Nodding agreement, Gloria flipped the TV on, and put the tape into the VCR. A broad smile spread across her face. 

Tonight had been one of the best nights of Gloria’s existence. Already, Christina had become a good friend. They had a lot in common, despite the fact that Gloria had the logical mind of a computer. It was the first time Gloria had made a friend without a mutual agreement to be friends. 

Fast-forwarding through the preliminary ads on the video, Gloria wondered why Christina was her assignment. They’d talked earlier about God and religion and things like that. Christina believed in God, believed He was all-loving, and loved God. Gloria didn't understand why she needed an angel. The angel tilted her head, as she tried to reason it out. 

Maybe it wasn't an angel Christina Daly needed at all. Maybe she just needed a friend. At that moment, Tess’ earlier warning about impending bad times crossed Gloria’s mind, and she frowned. _She_ will _need a friend if bad times do come her way! And the Father’s support._

**_______________________________**

Richard leaned against the dresser of his hotel room. A few hours before, the plane had landed in Rome; minutes ago, he and Timothy had checked into a nearby hotel. _A five-star hotel._ Richard yawned. _And we can only stay overnight. Too bad we can’t stay longer! I’d love to spend a couple of days in this place._

Shrugging, he removed his jacket and hung it in the closet. As he donned his pajamas, he wondered what Christina and Jessica were doing. It was nightfall, so no doubt Christina was asleep--or trying to sleep! “Jessica won’t make that easy,” he muttered. “Her colic causes her to cry all night.” He sighed, rubbing his hands on the front of his pajamas. 

An uneasy feeling, akin to fear, welled up in him. Biting his lip, he shook it off. “Nothing’s going to happen,” he told himself sternly. “It’s just a wild imagination. Christina worrying about me because of what happened last year, that’s all it is.” He rubbed his hair, front to back, then cracked his knuckles. 

As he slid underneath the covers and turned off the lamp, the foreboding feeling grew stronger. Something serious, indeed-- _very_ serious-- _was_ going to happen. But what? With an involuntary shudder, Richard pulled the covers over his neck.


	3. Chapter 2

Falling. 

Richard hated the sensation of falling. It took away his sense of control. His heart pounded in his chest so loud he could hear it: thump-thump-thump. Richard trembled as he fell feet-first. 

Richard wanted to act, to move. To do something to save himself. In a desperate attempt to regain a little control of where he was going, Richard forced his legs to move, to run. 

As he did, the pull from below became stronger. The falling sensation grew stronger as he fell face-forward. The blackness around him was so thick it felt as though it would hurt himself if he fell against it. 

Suddenly, he caught sight of billions of twinkling points of light he recognized as stars. How was it that he falling down, yet towards the stars? 

Fear gripped him. Something was wrong, badly wrong. He tried to make himself turn, it didn't work. 

_Come on._ He willed himself to look upward. _Turn around,_ he told himself fiercely. _You can do it. Turn around!_

As if the willing himself to turn did so, he turned. Now he was falling backwards. Falling at a speed he hadn't expected. Away from the earth...away from everything he knew. 

Richard found himself worrying about the lack of oxygen as he raised higher and higher up. He had to be in the top layer of the atmosphere by now. Shouldn't he be running out of air? 

Total darkness surrounded Richard. Only the earth was his only point of light. 

Suddenly, something shimmering rose from the earth. As it approached Richard, it cooed. Richard recognized the shape of a dove, flying away from the planet. 

Suddenly, it stopped in mid-flight, or at least part of it did. Richard gaped at it. What was it doing? 

Flapping its wings, the dove continued with its flight, leaving a faded image that appeared to be a twin to the more real-looking dove. 

Richard was stunned. As the more solid image of a dove flew off into space, a dove's cooing echoed in Richard's ears. Meanwhile, the nearly transparent image turned around and returned to earth. 

Richard turned to watch the solid image of a snow-white dove flying into the stars and beyond. Tears welled up in his eyes. The scene was beautiful, almost like an unrealistic painting. Still, watching it made Richard feel like someone had cut out part of his heart. He wanted to sit and sob, but he didn't get the chance. Somehow, he had to make it back to earth! 

The loud caw of an approaching raven caught his attention. Straining his eyes to see into the distance, Richard saw the raven flying towards him. 

Richard's eyes widened. The raven wasn't flying towards him, it was heading towards earth! Fear gripped him again, stronger than his grief. _The bird of death!!_

The raven approached with several loud cries. Richard couldn't stop it, only look into its evil yellow eyes as it flew directly into the planet Richard knew as home. 

Willing himself to turn, Richard followed the raven's flight progress with his eyes. The raven had entered the atmosphere; Richard was powerless to stop it. At that moment, a terrified scream reached his ears. Craning his head, Richard saw a familiar blond-haired girl reaching toward him. 

“Nicole!” he hollered. “Come to me!” To his dismay, Nicole floated away, still crying for help. Intense pain welled up in Richard; if only he could save her! _It’s all the raven’s fault!_ he thought. 

Suddenly, a darkness began to spread around the globe, like a dark cloud. Somehow, Richard knew it was connected to the raven. He reached out, longing to hold Christina in his arms, wanting nothing more than to stop the darkness that was about to overcome his world, but he was powerless. 

_"NOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!"_ Tilting his head, he screamed into the darkness covering his home. At that moment, the light emanating from earth switched off. Total darkness surrounded Richard on all sides; there was no light anywhere. As panic surged in his heart, Richard scrooged his eyes shut. 

Suddenly, the falling sensation returned, followed by a loud thud. “Umph!” he grunted, as pain exploded throughout his back and hips. 

Richard opened his eyes and scanned the environment frantically. Soft moonlight shone through the Venetian blinds covering the windows, revealing the outlines of furniture. Raising his hand, he pressed his fingers into a soft bedspread. Thank goodness, it was only the hotel bed! 

Richard leaned his head against the mattress for a long moment, taking deep breaths, then shook his head violently, to bring himself back to reality. It was all right. He’d had a terrible nightmare, that was all, and he’d fallen out of his bed. Wincing, Richard lifted his sore body off the floor and struggled to his feet. 

As Richard switched on his bedside lamp, he looked around. Soft lamplight illuminated the room as he tried vainly to stop shivering. That dream had been the most disturbing one he'd had in years! “I hope I’ll never have another one like it,” he muttered. “Nicole! Nicole!” Agonized moans escaped from his throat. 

Before he could sit down on the bed, he heard someone pounding on the door. “Come in,” Richard said, without thinking. 

The door opened, and Timothy walked in. Despite his distress, Richard nearly laughed when he saw his first officer in a long T-shirt that fell almost to his knees and a pair of sweatpants. A worried expression creased the man’s face. 

“Are you OK?” Timothy asked. “I heard you call out.” 

“Uhhh.” Richard rubbed the bridge of his nose. “I'm fine. I just...had a nightmare.” He rubbed his hands on the front of his pajamas and took a deep, shuddering breath. 

“Must have been some nightmare.” Timothy approached him, his brows furrowed in concern. “Are you hurt?” 

“Just my pride. I fell out of bed.” Richard forced himself to laugh. The soft mattress sagged and creaked as he perched on the edge of the bed. “Thanks for checking on me, Timothy, but I’ll be OK.” He hoped that his first officer would get the hint. 

Timothy nodded. “I’ll be in my room if you need me.” He left the room, closing the door softly behind him. 

Groaning, Richard spread himself out on the now-rumpled sheet. As he pulled the bedcovers over him, he tried to put the dream out of his mind. _I’ve_ got _to get some sleep,_ he thought. _Timothy and I have to fly back to New York tomorrow!_ Gritting his teeth, he turned the lamp off and curled on his side. Somehow, he _would_ get a good night’s sleep! 

**_______________________________**

Gloria tried to focus on the TV screen. She tried to laugh at the funny parts and sit in suspense through the suspenseful parts, but her eyes were drooping. The soft, cushioned seat of the sofa felt good now--a yearning swept through her to stretch out on it and sleep. 

Gloria stifled a yawn. She wanted to finish watching this movie. For the umpteenth time, she removed her glasses to rub her eyes. When she slid her glasses back over her nose, she scanned the living room. 

The whole room was a mess. Empty soda cans, empty chip bags, cookie crumbs, stray pieces of popcorn, and many more items of trash were scattered around the couch. She and Christina would have a major cleaning job in the morning. 

Try as she did, Gloria couldn't keep her eyes open. She was too exhausted. Remembering having once heard a human say that caffeine was a good way to stay awake, Gloria reached for another can of root beer. 

Next to her, Christina patted her hair and glanced down at the empty ashtray on the coffee table. “Wish I dared smoke a cigarette, but I don’t want to expose Jessica,” she mumbled. Gloria nodded. Having been told by Andrew, months before, about the consequences of smoking--consequences he was well acquainted with, as an angel of death--she understood Christina’s fear of making Jessica sick. 

Clumsily, Gloria snapped open the now-warm lid. What was the movie she was watching? 

Staring at the videocassette’s container for a moment, Gloria read slowly, _"‘That Darn Cat.’”_ It was embarrassing to read so slowly, since she normally could speed-read. 

_A Disney movie,_ she recalled. _Made by a man named Walt Disney. Monica told me about him some time ago._ Rubbing her index finger alongside the side of the videocassette container, she turned her attention back to the movie. 

As she sipped the root beer, Gloria just felt sleepier and sleepier. Finally, she turned to her hostess. 

“Christina, I’m exhausted.” Gloria yawned as she spoke. 

Christina laughed. “Understandable. It’s past midnight.” 

Gloria hadn't looked at the time since she’d gotten there. She wasn’t used to being this tired. An enormous yawn escaped her mouth before she had a chance to push it back. Her hostess laughed. 

“Come on.” Christina used the remote control to turn off the video before crossing the room to turn off the TV set. “Let's go to bed. I’m getting sleepy, too." 

At the foot of the stairs, she turned to face Gloria. “Our guest room is on the left.” Nodding her thanks, Gloria followed her up the stairs and shuffled down the hall toward her guest room. She would fall asleep as soon as her head hit the pillow--she was sure of that! 

**_______________________________**

The next morning, Richard focused on piloting the huge craft. Piloting relaxed him, helping him to forget his dream, his horrific memories. 

Try as he did, Richard could not shake that falling feeling. Not only had it lasted through the better part of his dream, he had actually fallen out of the hotel bed when it ended. What a rude way to awaken from a nightmare! He winced at the memory. He clenched and unclenched his hands, in an effort to relax. 

Finally, Richard could no longer focus. With a slight moan of exhaustion, Richard flipped on the auto-pilot. 

“You OK?” Timothy asked. 

Richard sighed. “I'm just not...I don't know.” He removed his cap to rub his hair; a moment later, he rubbed the bridge of his nose. 

Timothy nodded. “That dream?” Richard nodded again. 

Timothy smiled. “I don't blame you one bit. If I had a dream that made me scream and fall out of bed like that, I’d be distracted the next morning, too!” Richard couldn't help but chuckle at Timothy’s description of what he'd heard and seen. 

“I just hope I never have a dream like that again,” Richard commented. Timothy nodded agreement. The cushion creaked softly as Richard shifted position on the pilot’s chair. 

Silence reigned for a few moments, broken only by the steady drone of the engine. Finally, Richard decided to attempt to make conversation. “So, have you heard about the new President of Italy? Antonio Puccini?” 

Timothy nodded silently, creasing his forehead as an uneasy expression welled up in his eyes. “He was recently elected president of the European Union, as well.” 

Richard nodded. “I’m not surprised; he knows how to get things done, and the European Union knows it. He has some good ideas, don't you think?” 

Timothy bit his lip. “I guess so.” The uneasy expression in his eyes deepened. 

Richard looked sideways at Timothy. “What's wrong?” 

Timothy quoted a list of problems that didn't make sense to Richard. “Well, he’s the head of the Italian government and of the European Union. He’s promoting world peace, and he seems to have risen up in power really fast. He’s managed to convince the United Nations to consider moving its headquarters--where, they don’t know yet. Maybe Europe. In addition to appointing a new prime minister, Puccini’s got the new Israeli foreign minister and the new pope in his hip pocket, and together, the three men are working hard to convince the world religions to join together, become one. It looks as if they might succeed.” He paused. “On top of all that, he’s trying to persuade Israel to accept a Palestinian state, even though the Palestinians don’t want just a state--they want all of Israel to themselves.” He shook his head. “I don't like it.” 

Richard let his facial expression and his eyes show his confusion. Timothy explained. 

“The Bible says that in the end times, a leader will emerge from the Roman Empire. He'll create a world government and promote world peace, and he’ll make peace between Israel and her Arab neighbors. But in the end, he'll be bad news.” 

Rage surged inside Richard. _The Bible!_ Why did those two words make him so angry? No, it wasn’t those words, it was Timothy’s constant use of those two words. He clenched both hands till his knuckles turned white. 

“Timothy, I told you not to rub in my face that you believe differently from me, or that you think you’re superior to me! I hate you jumping on me about it all the time, and I wish I never asked. I’ve had it!” Leaping to his feet, he glared at the first officer. 

Timothy gaped at him, clearly taken aback. Without giving Timothy a chance to respond, Richard stormed out of the cockpit. 

**_______________________________**

Christina lay on her side in bed, resting her head on her left arm. The mattress sagged under her body as she wiggled into a more comfortable position. As they so often did, her daughter’s cries blocked her thought process. 

Jessica was screaming, as usual. Christina just hoped Gloria was sleeping OK--it was so difficult to sleep well when Jessica was colicky. Even more, she hoped Jessica would fall asleep too! _I’ll be so glad when she outgrows that darned colic,_ she thought. 

As Christina drifted toward sleep, she wondered what Richard must be doing at that moment. Hopefully she'd dream about him tonight. _I just hope he’s all right, and that he’s not too lonely,_ she thought. _I miss him when he’s away!_

Teetering on the edge of sleep, Christina thought of how she might explain to Richard how a stranger had come to be sleep in the guest room. She imagined herself saying, “Gee, Richard, I met her in front of the World Trace Center construction site; we had coffee, and I invited her for a sleepover. It’s not like you were here to object.” Christina pursed her lips. Talk about stupid! She shook her head. 

The movement made her more awake and able to think of a more rational thing to say to Richard. She could wait until he met Gloria and say, “Richard, this is Gloria, she's a new friend. We met yesterday morning.” 

To Christina, that still sounded corny. Oh well, she could just explain it to Richard on the spur of the moment. For now, she would concentrate on getting some much-needed sleep. The pillow felt so soft and comfortable! With a final yawn, she slid into slumber land. 

**_______________________________**

Richard entered the galley where meals were cooked. For a second, he wondered why he had gone there. Maybe because he needed to talk to someone. He took a deep breath, trying to push away his anger toward Timothy. 

The red-headed flight attendant whom he’d spoken to earlier--Monica--bent over the microwave oven, slipping some TV dinners inside. As Richard closed the door, Monica straightened her back and turned around. 

“Hi, there,” Richard said, as cheerfully as he could manage with his anger boiling just under the surface. With a conscious effort, he resisted the temptation to clench his fists. He did not want to discuss his anger with this flight attendant. He had a feeling she’d notice and try to get him to open up, and he didn’t feel like doing that now. 

“Hello, Captain Daly,” she responded, propping her fingers together as she spoke. Richard couldn’t help but smile at her accent. She was clearly Irish. “Amy’s in the first-class cabin right now, attending the passengers.” 

Richard nodded. Amy was his senior flight attendant. Unsure what to say, the pilot fumbled for a conversation starter. Finally, he said, “So...you’re a new flight attendant?” 

Monica nodded and held out her hand. “I’ve been hired to replace Elaine Taylor.” She extended her hand. 

“Yes; she quit last week, as I recall.” Richard shook her hand. “Is this your first shift on our airline?” She nodded, as she smiled warmly. 

An overpowering urge to escape welled up in Richard. He glanced at his watch. “If you’ll excuse me, Monica, I’ve got to check on the passengers.” He strode out of the room, his boots thudding on the carpet. 

Monica watched him sadly. “Help him, Father,” she whispered in prayer. “And help his wife!” With a sigh, she turned back to the microwave oven. 

**_______________________________**

Christina woke up from a bad dream. As she shifted position, she froze. Something was missing. But what? 

Christina lifted her head to scan the darkened bedroom. Soft moonlight shone through the window, revealing the outlines of the furniture. Dresser, chair, desk--all the furniture was in place, and although Richard wasn't lying there, next to her, she'd gotten used to his absence. Suddenly, it dawned on her. 

_It's too quiet,_ she thought. Panic swept over her. Jessica wasn’t crying. That might mean she’d finally gone to sleep, or it might mean--! 

Christina practically flew out of bed, out the bedroom door, and down the hall. She rushed into the nursery. _I hope Jessica’s all right!_

Holding her breath, Christina approached the crib. Silently, she prayed to see that Jessica had miraculously fallen asleep. 

“Oh, no!” she whispered. Panic surged in her throat. 

The toys, blanket, even Jessica’s little sleeper lay disarrayed in the crib. But Jessica had vanished! 

“Oh, please, God, no!” Christina yelled. “My baby! Oh, _no_! _Nooooooooo!!_ ” She shook her head violently and rubbed her face. 

**_______________________________**

Richard strolled among the first-class passengers. To his relief, his anger had finally dissipated. Most were sleeping, and a few were evidently trying to sleep. Some sat up, whispering among themselves, working on laptop computers, or reading books. 

_Wonder what Ryan’s doing, now,_ Richard thought, removing his pilot’s cap to smooth his hair back. _Hope his interview with Puccini goes well! If anyone deserves it, it's Ryan--he's been drawing unemployment for too long now. I wouldn’t mind working for that Puccini guy, myself._

He ran his fingers over his head, then turned toward the wall to rub his eyes. It was time to return to the cockpit and spell Timothy. He set his cap back on his head. 

The whispering and muttering suddenly ceased--complete silence filled the plane, except for the drone of the engine. _Uh-oh!_ he thought, as stifled gasps reached his ears. Richard whirled to find out what had happened. 

Facing the rows of seats, he froze. Many of the passengers had disappeared! 

Richard didn’t know how to describe it. One minute, the plane had been full; the next moment, many of the seats were empty, except for piles of clothes. Three of the passengers who were awake sat stunned, mouths gaping, scanning the rows of suddenly empty seats. 

Richard suddenly realized that the plane had taken a nosedive. Cursing, he darted toward the cockpit. What on earth was Timothy doing? Why had he taken the airplane off autopilot if he wasn’t going to keep it safely in the air? 

Richard burst into the cockpit, only to freeze. Timothy had also disappeared! And now, this plane was going to crash unless Richard could stop it. He had to get this plane out of this nosedive immediately, or everyone left on this flight would be killed, including himself!


	4. Chapter 3

Ryan Whittaker was trying to help. 

The streets of Rome were piled with traffic. Ryan knew the Cadillac he had just rented was somewhere among the tangled mess that he wanted to help clear. Ryan had never been more grateful for the fact that his body had little reaction to jet lag and he was able to quickly adjust to any time zone. Despite the language barrier, Ryan had made it clear to the Italian police that he wanted to help. Ryan paused, at one point, to wipe his sweaty face with the back of his hand. He glared at the cloudless sky, then turned back to the people needing help. 

As he approached a mangled station wagon, he came face to face with a young woman sitting behind the wheel, who appeared to be going into shock. Her hair was dark brown and straight, and she had a slender figure. But right now her face was badly bruised, and her blue eyes were wild with pain and fear. 

“My baby!” she shrieked. “My baby was in his car seat! He just...he just disappeared.” 

Ryan tried to steady the woman. “Calm down,” he said. _Calm down,_ he repeated in his mind. _What a joke!_

“Have you seen my baby?” the woman shrieked desperately. 

Ryan spoke soothingly. “No, ma’am, but I’m sure the police will find him. They’ll be here shortly. Just hold on. Right now, you need first-aid.” 

As he spoke, he laid a hand on her forehead. It felt cool and clammy. Ryan bit his lip. This was not good. The woman winced in pain. “Help me,” she whispered. “It hurts.” Ryan patted her arm. 

_I’ve got to do something, fast!_ he thought. He knew that an accident victim going into shock needed to be kept as warm as possible. Ryan tugged off his own suit jacket and put it around the woman's shoulders. She dangled limply, moaning, as he picked her up and carried her an ambulance. “My baby! Please find my baby,” she pleaded. 

As he approached one of the paramedics, he thought about what had happened just moments ago. Ryan had seen a speeding car that wouldn't stop or swerve; he himself had tried to swerve out of its way, only to have that car slam into the back of his rental car. That had been the first hint that something was wrong. As he’d pulled to a stop, cars all up and down the street had crashed into one another. Ryan had barely avoided being crashed into from the side by a driverless station wagon. 

As Ryan had listened to nearby radios and eavesdropped on the police officers’ agitated discussions, he had learned that millions of people all over the world had suddenly disappeared, right out of their clothes. However, at the moment, he was unable to think. All that was on his mind was to help the injured. 

Gently, he helped the paramedic position the young woman on a stretcher. He patted her shoulder, then backed away as another paramedic joined the first to position the moaning woman in the back of the ambulance. He turned to a nearby police officer to report the disappearance of the woman’s child. Drops of sweat rolled down his forehead as he did so. 

“What next?” he whispered, as the police officer spoke with the injured woman. “What’s going to happen now?” Ryan swallowed hard. A moment later, the paramedic gave him his jacket just before draping the woman with the gurney sheet. Ryan thanked him, then struggled back into it. 

_I’m going to be late,_ he thought, as he pulled his cellular phone out of his pants pocket. _I’d better let Mr. Puccini know what’s happening!_

**________________________**

Richard lurched forward into the cockpit. With a grab at the wheel, Richard dropped himself into the pilot’s seat. 

In desperation, Richard did the only thing he knew to do in a situation like this. Clutching the wheel till his knuckles turned white, Richard leaned back in the seat, pulling on the wheel as hard as he could. This would bring it out of the nose dive. 

Richard's heart pounded in his chest. He knew the chances of this succeeding were about one in two. If he couldn’t save the airplane, every passenger and crew member would be killed in a hideous crash, including himself. 

“Come on,” he said aloud. “C'mon, pull up!” He gritted his teeth. 

Almost as if his words had done it, Richard felt a little extra give from the wheel. The approaching ground disappeared, to be replaced by a view of the glittering stars. Richard breathed a deep sigh of relief as the plane leveled out. 

With one hand still controlling the plane, Richard pressed the intercom button. Try as he might, he couldn't keep the sound of fear from his voice. 

“Ladies and gentleman. As I'm sure you all know something very strange has just happened. Many people on this plane have simply disappeared, including the first officer.” He paused to take a deep breath. “I recommend everyone stay in their seats until it’s time to land.” 

Although it was irregular, Richard had to give instructions to the crew too. He swallowed hard, before continuing. 

“Flight attendants, walk slowly around the plane. Find out how many are here and how many are missing. If there's a constant panic, come notify me and something will be done about it.” 

Rubbing the front of his uniform, Richard took a deep breath. “I'm not sure what happened, but I'm about to contact anyone I can to find out if this was an isolated incident, or if it's happened in other places as well.” 

Richard shut off the intercom and bit his lower lip. He had to focus, to control his emotions; as the pilot, it was his responsibility to keep the passengers calm and get them to New York in one piece. Minutes passed as he took deep breaths, admonishing himself to calm down and relax. He wiped his face with his cotton handkerchief, then stuffed it into his pants pocket. The cushion creaked underneath him as he shifted position. At least, they were safe for the moment. 

A tap on his shoulder startled him; he whirled around to see Monica standing behind him. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean to startle you.” 

Richard nodded. “That’s OK. Are the passengers all right?” 

Monica sighed. “As well as they can be, for the moment.” She paused. “And you?” 

Richard shook his head. He pressed his lips into a tight line. “I’ll manage. I’ve got to keep myself together, so I can get the plane safely to New York.” He paused. “Would you get me some coffee, Monica?” 

“Certainly.” Monica left the cockpit, a pleased gleam in her eyes. In spite of his churning emotions, it occurred to Richard that his newest flight attendant might be a coffee lover. He smiled at the thought, then sighed. What a night this was turning out to be! 

**________________________**

“Gloria! _Gloria!_ Wake up!” 

The voice penetrated Gloria's sleep. For a moment, Gloria wondered for a moment where she was and who was talking to her. Then the memories came floating back. 

“Gloria! Wake up!” The voice sounded frantic. 

Slowly, Gloria forced herself to respond. She couldn't believe how much effort it took just to sit up. The mattress sagged and creaked as, yawning, she pushed herself up on her elbow. Her eyelids felt like they were pasted shut. _That coffee must have put me to sleep,_ she thought, rubbing her eyes. _But why? It’s supposed to wake you up! Maybe it has the opposite effect on angels._ She yawned. 

No sooner did she open her eyes than a flood of lamplight hurt them, forcing her to close them again. When Christina shook her shoulder, Gloria re-opened them. An enormous yawn escaped from her throat. 

“Uh, Christina,” she said, confused. “Is something wrong?” Despite the overwhelming urge to close her eyes again, she forced them to stay open; with much effort, she managed to focus on Christina’s blurred image. 

Christina's red-rimmed eyes were wide with terror, and she was shaking. “Yes!” she exclaimed. “Very!” 

Propping herself on one elbow, Gloria looked Christina in the eye. Whatever the problem was, Christina needed to calm down. Gloria had learned from her one year’s worth of experience as an angel that the only way to calm a human down was to stay calm oneself. She glanced down at the nightgown Christina had loaned her. 

“What's wrong?” she asked slowly. 

“Jessica’s missing!” Christina exclaimed. 

Gloria sat up straight, despite an overpowering sleepiness that made her want to lie down and close her eyes once more. “Are you sure?” She yawned as she spoke. 

“Yes!” Christina exclaimed. 

Gloria rose to her feet. Christina was near hysterics. “I’ve looked all over the nursery, and all upstairs. The baby gate is closed, so she can't be downstairs. I think she's been kidnapped!” 

Fear surged in the angel’s heart. _Father, what shall I do?_ Gloria silently prayed. Out loud, she said, “Christina, you call the police. I’ll search through Jessica's room to see if there’s any clues as to what happened. OK?” 

Christina nodded, tears flowing down her cheeks. Gloria couldn’t endure seeing her new friend so upset. Impulsively, she reached out and embraced Christina in a tight hug. The distraught woman laid her head on Gloria’s shoulder and sobbed. 

At last, Christina wiped her face and stood up. “I’m going to call 911.” She rushed out of the room. 

Putting on her borrowed house shoes, Gloria left her guest room and entered Jessica’s. For a long moment, she just stood next to the crib, staring down at the tousled baby blanket. _So, this is the emergency Tess said was going to happen!_ she thought, rubbing her fingers down one of the smooth crib bars. “God,” she whispered, “did someone break into the Daly home and steal Jessica?” 

“Yes and no.” 

A startled Gloria whirled around to find Tess facing her. “Hello, Tess.” She exhaled a deep breath. “Oh, Tess, something terrible has happened. Jessica’s missing! She's disappeared!” 

“Yes.” Tess paused, clasping her hands together. “And so have millions of other people, all over the world.” 

_“What???”_ Gloria gaped at her supervisor. 

“The Bible predicted this mass disappearance, Angel Girl.” The overhead light flooding the bedroom caused Tess’s brooch to glisten as the supervisor angel glanced at the crib. “Millions of Christians were caught up in it, as well as all babies and small children. The church called it the Rapture.” 

Tilting her head, Gloria furrowed her eyebrows in puzzlement. “But why? Why would God take them away? Where did they go? Are they dead?” 

“In answer to your second question, they went to Heaven,” Tess explained. “But they’re not dead. They have new bodies, imperishable bodies. Bodies that can live in Heaven as well as on Earth.” She paused. “Not only did God catch up every living Christian, and every small child, He resurrected every deceased believer, and every baby and young child who was dead. They’re all assembled before God’s throne, right now.” 

The supervisor angel paused. “In answer to your first question: the reason God took them to Heaven. The Father has to turn His focus back to Israel, and get the world ready for the return of Jesus to this earth. There’s going to be a period of time predicted in the Bible that’ll be worse than any that’s ever been.” Sorrow darkened Tess’s face; she furrowed her eyebrows. “It’s going to be so bad that every person on this planet would die if the Father didn’t cut it short. It’s called the Tribulation, and it will last seven years.” 

“And God took His church to save it from this--this Tribulation?” Gloria cocked her head as she spoke. 

Tess nodded. “Yes, He did. And to shift His focus back to His chosen people--the Jews.” She paused. “It will start when an agreement has been signed, allowing Israel to rebuild her temple. An evil man called the Antichrist will set up that agreement.” She paused for a moment, gazing at the empty crib. “Things have been building up to this for decades, Gloria, but the events of September 11th sped them up considerably. When that terrorist attack happened, it not only devastated the lives of the people affected by it--people such as Christina and Ryan--it set in motion worldwide events that have since led to what’s now about to happen.” Sorrow welled in her dark eyes. 

Gloria winced. “Uh, Tess, is--is this the event that Sam warned Andrew and Adam about?” 

“Yes.” Tess shifted her gaze toward Gloria, as a serious expression welled in her eyes. “And now, you know what your assignment is, baby. Your job is to help Christina accept the truth, so she can turn to Jesus and be saved. Horrendous events are going to take place, killing the majority of people now alive. Christina and her husband have got to accept Jesus as their Savior--accept the Father’s love--so they’ll be ready for what’s coming.” 

Gloria nodded. “What about Monica? And Andrew? Do they know?” 

“They will, after I leave you.” Tess nodded. “First I must tell Andrew, then my next stop is the airplane Monica’s working on. I must tell her, too. Richard is Andrew’s assignment, and Ryan is Monica’s.” 

Tess handed Gloria a Bible. She opened it to a passage toward the back. “Read this, Gloria. And when you’re finished, read the Book of Revelation and First Corinthians Chapter 15. Then read the books of Daniel, Zechariah, and Joel--as you know, they’re in the Old Testament.” She paused. “And when you’re done, give it to Christina--she’s going to need it. There’s not a Bible in this whole house.” With a shake of her head, she pursed her lips in evident displeasure. 

Nodding, Gloria took the book. She read a passage in First Thessalonians, then riffled through the book till she came to First Corinthians. Silently, she read the chapter Tess had mentioned. She riffled through the pages in the Book of Revelation, scanning chapter after chapter as her computer-like mind took in every detail. She then followed it up with the three Old Testament books Tess had recommended. 

“I can’t believe it!!” 

Soft footfalls signaled Christina’s return. Laying the Bible on a coffee table, Gloria turned toward the door, as a distraught Christina rushed through the open doorway. Tess, Gloria noticed, had disappeared. 

“I _can’t_ believe it!” Christina choked back sobs as she shook her head violently. “First I had to wait and wait, because I kept getting nothing but busy signals for the longest time. Then, when I finally got through, the police sergeant who took my call told me that he couldn’t send anyone to me now, that he’s getting a flood of calls like mine.” 

Gloria winced. “I’m sorry to hear that.” 

“ _You’re_ sorry?” Christina sniffled. “That darn police sergeant--I can’t believe he would take my predicament so lightly!” With a frustrated moan, she pounded the dresser with both fists, then took a deep, shuddering breath. 

Gloria bit her lip. How could she make clear to Christina what had happened without disclosing her identity? The Father had forbidden her to do that until the time was right. She ran her fingers along the frame of her glasses as she pondered her dilemma. Silently, she prayed for guidance. 

“Uh, Christina, is it possible that Jessica might have been caught up--by God in Heaven?” 

Christina whirled around and gaped at her. “What do you mean?” 

Gloria glanced at the Bible, then turned toward Christina. “I mean, she might have been caught in the Rapture. The Bible predicts it, you know.” 

Christina put her face in her hands. “Oh, please, Gloria, _don’t_ make jokes with me now! God would never take an innocent baby away like that, now would He?” She slapped her arms against her sides. “Something’s happened to my Jessica, and I’ve _got_ to find out what!” She moaned. “Where _is_ she? Where’s my Jessica?” She shook her head a second time. 

Gloria picked up her Bible and opened it to one of the passages she had just read. “Read this, Christina, and see if it’s not a possibility.” 

“Where’d you get this?” Christina stared down at the Bible. “Richard and I don’t have any copies of this book!” 

“A friend of mine gave it to me.” Gloria held it out. “You can have it, Christina. I have another.” 

Christina reluctantly took the Bible from her new friend and read the passage in First Thessalonians silently. Handing it back, she said, “I’ll think about it.” She sighed. “I’m in shock, Gloria--I can’t think straight just yet. The sergeant said he’d send an officer as soon as he could.” She moaned. “Poor Richard! This is going to be such a shock for him! How am I going to tell him?” She whirled and rushed out of the room. 

Gloria shook her head, gazing at the ceiling. “Please, God,” she begged, “help Christina and Richard. Help them to accept the truth. Help me to assist them to face facts.” She took a deep breath and left the room. 

**________________________**

Ryan hurried as quickly as he could make his sore body go. He was already 15 minutes late for his appointment--he did not want to be any later, if he could help it! He rushed through the front door of the office complex where Antonio Puccini worked. 

Although the building was beautiful inside and out, Ryan had no time to enjoy it. Nor was he in any condition to do so. All he cared about was reaching Puccini’s office. 

The better part of his morning had been spent helping people the best he could. In one case, he'd helped a teenager get his car out of a jammed parking lot. In another, he’d given first aid to some injured people at the scene of the crash of a privately owned airplane. That didn’t even count the pile-up on the street he'd been a part of when people started disappearing. 

Now, muscles he hadn't even known he had were sore from over-use. He wanted nothing more than to go home, curl up in his bed, and take a nice long nap, then wake up and discover that none of this had happened. But it had happened, and he still had to keep his appointment with his potential boss, Antonio Puccini, even though he was tardy. 

Ryan hated the suit he was wearing. When he had disembarked from the jet liner, it had looked immaculate; now it looked rumpled, and blood stains covered its front. Instinctively, he reached up to loosen his tie. His sore shoulder protested. 

_Great,_ he thought. _I'm gonna make a great impression. I'm almost too sore to move, I'm exhausted, and I look awful in a suit. Especially one in this condition!_ He grimaced as he glanced at his watch. _And I’m late!_

Less than five minutes later, Ryan entered a reception room, where he was greeted by a rather attractive young woman dressed professionally with her dark hair swept up into a bun. An open book of crossword puzzles, Ryan noticed, lay on the polished mahogany desk before her. “Mr. Whittaker?” she asked. 

Ryan looked at her. She looked as pained emotionally as he felt physically. Despite his dislike for being called Mr. Whittaker, for a moment Ryan's compassion made him want to reach out and hold her, letting her cry out all her pain. Still, he knew he was here to interview for a profession, and had to behave professionally. Yet, he couldn't keep the compassion from reaching his eyes. 

“Yes, ma'am?” he responded. 

“President Puccini's office is this way.” She rose to her feet. “I gave him your message. He said to tell you it’s all right--right now, everything’s in chaos.” She circled around her desk to approach him. 

Inserting his hands into his pockets, Ryan smiled his thanks. He noticed that her accent was not Italian, but rather a mix between Greek and American. That seemed out-of-place. He hadn't heard a non-Italian accent for the whole time he'd been there. Of course, he had only been in Rome for a few hours, so there hadn’t been much time to get to know the people there. 

The young woman motioned for him to follow her. Ryan did. She led him down a hallway lined with closed doors. The hallway seemed to curve, as if in a half-circle. At the end of the hall, the two entered an elevator. 

Inside, the woman pushed the button for the top floor. _Looks like we’re gonna be in here for a while,_ Ryan thought. 

“So...” He paused. “Where were you this morning?” He hadn't asked anyone that question since the previous September. 

The woman's eyes brimmed with tears, and she turned away. “I'd...” She choked through a lump in her throat. “I'd rather not talk about it.” She twisted her watch around her wrist, backward and forward. 

Ryan understood. After a few moments of silence the elevator stopped and the doors opened. The young woman walked briskly down the carpeted hallway, till she stopped in front of another door. She rapped her knuckles on the door, then swung it open. 

“Mr. Whittaker is here to see you, sir,” she announced. Pushing the door wide open, she turned on her heel to walk away, leaving Ryan looking into the office. 

Antonio Puccini sat in an ornate high-backed chair behind a desk across the elegant room. Silk drapes covered the window behind him. Unlike just about everyone Ryan had seen that day, Puccini looked calm, normal, almost happy. He sat with his arms folded on his desk. Another man, whom Ryan recognized as the Israeli foreign minister, stood next to the desk, hands in his pants pockets. _Elijah Dayan,_ Ryan thought. _What’s he doing here?_

“I’ve got to go, Antonio,” the man said. “I’ll be in touch with you later.” Puccini nodded, and the foreign minister left, nodding a greeting at Ryan. Puccini leaned back in his chair and smiled broadly. 

Ryan fought a surge of irritation as he gazed at the prime minister. What kind of man was this Puccini, anyway? Here they were, in the grip of an international tragedy of horrendous magnitude, and Puccini was _smiling_! 

“Mr. Whittaker,” Puccini greeted. Ryan found himself looking into Puccini’s eyes. They were an odd color, brownish-gold, with a touch of green that made them interesting. Still, it was the look in his eyes that had shivers running up and down Ryan's spine. 

“Good morning, President Puccini,” Ryan responded. He glanced down at his suit. “I apologize for my disheveled appearance, sir, and for being late. I, uh, ran into an emergency this morning.” He smiled apologetically. 

“I know.” Puccini nodded. “I suspected you were caught in it when Miss Crossman gave me your message.” 

Puccini motioned for Ryan to sit down. Ryan did so. 

**________________________**

“This isn’t a coffee assignment, Miss Wings!” 

Monica whirled from the coffee pot to find Tess standing behind her, a stern expression etched on her face. “Tess!” she said, startled. “Uh, Mr. Daly asked me to make him some coffee, so...” 

“So you thought you’d have some, too.” Monica blushed; Tess knew her too well. Tess put her hands on her hips. “Well, Angel Girl, you’re going to have to control that coffee love of yours for now, because this is a serious situation!” 

“Serious? How?” Monica turned to plug in the coffee pot, then pivoted to face her supervisor once more. An uneasy feeling rose in her. 

“ _Very_ serious.” Andrew appeared next to Monica, a concerned expression etched on his normally cheerful face. “Tess told me everything, just a few minutes ago.” He paused. “This is what Sam warned Adam and me about.” 

“What--?” Monica turned to Tess, confused. “You mean, about the disappearance of the passengers on this plane?” 

“Yes. Listen.” Tess nodded toward the wall that divided the galley and the cockpit. Monica approached the wall and cocked her ear, pressing it against the wall’s smooth surface. 

On the other side, Richard spoke into his radio. 

“This is Pan-World 2-niner heavy. We are declaring an emergency. Does anyone copy?” There was silence for several moments. Richard tried again. “Pan-World 2 niner heavy is declaring an emergency. Any aircraft that copy, please respond.” 

After a brief crackling sound, there was a voice on the radio. 

“Pan-World 2-niner heavy, this is Concord 06. Are you having a mechanical emergency?” 

_Maybe it‘s only on my flight that people have disappeared,_ Richard thought. Out loud, he responded, “Negative.” 

This time, the voice on the other end sounded uneasy. “Missing passengers?” Richard winced. This was the confirmation he had hoped he wouldn’t receive! 

“Affirmative. First officer, too. How did you know?” Although Richard knew that it must have happened on other flights, he didn't want to think about that. The other pilot's words kept him from denying it any longer. 

“Passengers missing here too. Missing airplane staff, as well. It's happened all over, even on the ground.” 

The words, "even on the ground," was much more than Richard wanted to hear. He could literally hear his heart thumping. _Christina,_ he thought. _I hope she and Jessica are all right!_

Richard wasn't sure what to say next. It was the first time in a long time Richard didn't know what to say. Biting back a groan, he removed his cap and rubbed his hair, front to back. _Where is that coffee, Monica? I need it!_ He sighed and shook his head. 

_Well,_ he thought, _I’m going to tell Christina about this when I get home._ He gritted his teeth--if only he was near New York City right now! He glanced at the empty seat next to him. _Looks like I’m going to have to replace Timothy, too!_ He pursed his lips. 

In the galley, Monica turned toward Tess, as shock surged through her. “You mean---!” 

Tess nodded. “Yes, I do mean. The Rapture has occurred; every child of God has been taken to Heaven. Not only born-again Christians, living and dead, but all babies and young children, too. Mr. and Mrs. Daly’s baby were included in that number.” She nodded toward the wall a second time, then turned to Andrew. “And your assignment is sitting in that cockpit, Angel Boy.” She clasped her hands as she spoke. 

“Mr. Daly?” Monica glanced toward the coffee pot as she spoke, then glanced at Andrew. The angel of death nodded his acceptance of the assignment. 

Tess nodded. “And _your_ assignment, Monica, is in Italy as we speak. Ryan Whittaker.” Monica nodded her acquiescence. 

**________________________**

“Did you have a good flight, Mr. Whittaker?” The Italian president leaned back in his chair. 

Ryan nodded. “Yes, thank you. My brother-in-law was the pilot.” Shifting position in the unyielding hard-backed chair, he folded his hands in his lap. Curiosity about Elijah Dayan’s visit welled up in him, but out of politeness, he said nothing. If it was anything newsworthy, he would learn of it from CNN soon enough. 

Antonio's eyebrows raised slightly as he chuckled. He slowly widened his lips in a smirk, but no smile accompanied them in his eyes. “Flying runs in the family, eh?” 

Ryan nodded again. Why did he feel uneasy about talking to this man? 

Antonio seemed to notice Ryan's hesitancy. His gaze became sympathetic. “You do not feel like talking, after what happened this morning.” 

Ryan couldn't meet Antonio's eyes. He stared down at his hands. Was that why he wasn’t feeling talkative around Antonio? Because of the disappearances? No, that wasn't right. He'd wanted to talk to the secretary. In spite of himself, Ryan found himself nodding again. 

“Would you rather talk about the possibility of being my pilot?” Antonio asked. 

“Yes sir,” Ryan said, almost too enthusiastically. Flying was his passion...that and the outdoors. 

“Very well then,” Antonio said. “When did you get your pilot's license?” 

Ryan still remembered that day well. “It was when I was 15 years old,” he said. “I was in high school.” Ryan chuckled. “The only kid in school with a pilot's license. I got that even before I got my driver’s license.” 

A smile creased Antonio‘s lips, but his eyes remained expressionless. “And then you joined the Air Force, and when your stint ended, you became a commercial pilot.” 

Ryan nodded. “Yes. I'll confess, though, I never encountered a disaster such as happened this morning.” He bit his lip. 

Antonio nodded agreement. “No, I am sure you did not. What happened this morning was an emergency like no other. Yet I am told you have a history of handling crises with courage. Yes, I know you were not in the cockpit this morning, but I have also been told you administered first-aid to a number of people on the road when it happened.” Ryan nodded, wondering who had informed Puccini of his role in that morning's events. All he himself had told Puccini’s secretary was that he’d been held up by an emergency. “I am sure that is why your appearance is a little--shall we say, rumpled?” 

Ryan nodded, then glanced down at his suit, biting his lip. Antonio chuckled. “Do not feel ashamed, Ryan. What you did this morning makes you a hero.” 

Antonio leaned forward. “You are the man I need, Whittaker, so you are hired. You will be the pilot for my private plane. How soon can you start?” 

“With all due respect, President--Puccini--” Ryan began. 

“Please call me Antonio,” Antonio interrupted. 

“Antonio,” Ryan corrected. “With all due respect, sir, I haven’t learned enough about this job to accept it on the spot.” 

Antonio looked surprised. “I am sorry,” he said, but it didn't seem like he meant it as an apology, more as a conversation filler. “I did not realize that you were...” Antonio searched for a word for a moment and said, “...uninformed.” 

Ryan bit his lip. _And just who_ would _have informed me?_ he wondered. 

Antonio cracked his knuckles. “All right, I will fill you in on the job description.” He paused. “As president of Italy _and_ of the European Union, I have a busy schedule. I have to travel quite a bit, even now, and events are shaping up that will soon require me to travel even more. Even though I have recently appointed a prime minister who will handle many of the tasks of government--including forming a new goverment--I am still very busy. I need a steady, dependable pilot who is on call at all times, who has steady nerves and a cool head, who knows how to handle himself in emergencies, and who can be trusted to be ready to fly at any time of the day or night. The benefits are excellent, I assure you, and the pay is generous. I understand you are single.” 

Ryan nodded. Silently, he wondered what Puccini would be doing that would be keeping him so busy. Even though he was the elected head of the Italian government, the prime minister would be the one to set Italy's national policy as well as to form a cabinet. Could it be that Puccini intended to take some of those jobs over? he wondered. 

“Well, consider this--if ever you decide to get married, you will be more than able to support a family. Comfortably. In style.” 

Ryan leaned back to consider the offer. It sounded good. He could think of no ostensible reason to turn it down, yet something about Antonio made him uneasy. 

“All right,” he finally said. “I accept the position. When do you want me to start?” 

“As soon as you can get your things moved from your New York apartment.” Antonio rose to his feet. “That will not take long, I know.” 

As Puccini accompanied Ryan to the door, Ryan took a deep breath as a feeling of nausea rose in him. _I hope I’ve made the right decision,_ he thought. _But there’s no turning back now._ He paused to shake Puccini’s hand, then departed. 

**________________________**

Richard was frustrated. It was all he could do to refrain from shoving his fist through the jet-liner’s windshield. As he wiggled impatiently on his chair, the cushion creaked underneath his weight. 

He’d just had two conversations with different airport towers, and both airports were closed. Now he was forced to look for a smaller airport or somewhere else safe to land--and in the middle of the night, no less! He took another sip from the now-cold coffee, sitting on a tray next to him since Monica had brought it to him some time earlier. He leaned back in his chair for the umpteenth time, clenching his fists and gritting his teeth. He glared at the stars that glittered in the distance. If only it were daylight! 

Monica walked into the cockpit. “Excuse me, Captain Daly,” she said. 

Richard didn’t take his eyes away from the instruments that showed their position. “Yes?” he said briskly. 

“The emergency exit ramp is ready to be inflated once you find a landing spot.” 

Richard nodded slightly. “Thank you,” he said, hoping his tone would indicate that he wanted her to go away. Taking the hint, Monica left the cockpit. With a sigh, Richard wiped his face with his handkerchief, then rubbed his forehead. He would have to use his instruments to make sure he found a safe spot, since it was too dark to fly by sight. He could only hope it would be possible to do so. 

He flew the plane in a circle around the city several times, looking for an ideal place to land. Every airport was crammed full and closed. Smoke from crashes everywhere wafted into the air, blocking the stars. After long minutes, he barely managed to make out a huge grassy area in Central Park. _Perfect to land on,_ he thought. 

Richard didn’t know if it was legal to land in Central Park or not, but at a time like this it didn’t really matter. Just about every law in the book went out the window when it came to people’s safety in situations like this. If the plane stayed in the air much longer, it would run out of fuel. He made the announcement. 

“Ladies and gentlemen, if you are not already in your seats, please seat yourself and buckle in. We are about to begin initial decent.” 

Richard hesitated, but then decided the passengers deserved to be as well-informed as possible. “I regret to inform you that no airport has room enough for a bird this size, but I’m going to attempt a landing at Central Park. Do not panic. An exit ramp will be provided for your use.” 

Once again, he hesitated. Somehow, saying, “And thank you for flying Pan-World Airways,” didn't seem to be an appropriate way to end his words to the passengers. Richard wasn’t sure what to say. Finally, he just switched off the intercom. 

Richard began the process of landing the plane. When the plane landed with a jolt, he knew that he had made it safely. 

About 20 minutes later, Richard stood at the top of the emergency escape slide, clasping his flight bag. All of his passengers had left for their destinations. It was his turn to leave the plane. 

Richard jumped upward, kicking his legs into the air. Less than a second later, his rear connected with the slide. The jolt made it feel like his stomach jumped into his throat. He slid down the ramp. 

If there was anything he hated as much as falling, it was sliding. Both created the same lack of control over his body. Somehow, he suspected that his dream from the night before and this tragedy were connected. 

It was a fleeting thought, and Richard quickly dismissed it. In the next instant, his body jolted as his feet hit the ground. He lost his balance. 

_Falling again,_ Richard thought briefly, extending his arms to catch himself. “Ooof!” he grunted. 

Richard shook his head as he picked himself off the ground. He rubbed his hands on his uniform to wipe off the dew. Everyone had left the grassy area; only Richard was left. Taking a deep breath, he rose his feet and scanned the park to get his bearings. 

After a moment’s thought, he noticed that there was a wooded area of the park between him and the road that would take him home. The way he saw it, he'd have to walk. But it would be worth it. Worth it to see his Christina. He picked up his flight bag and broke into a brisk stride. _It’s fortunate I have good night vision,_ he thought, wryly. 

**________________________**

As he strolled through the office complex’s front entrance, Ryan shook his head. He couldn't believe that he'd been hired on the spot like that. He’d gone from a recently unemployed pilot, to a volunteer in the worst tragedy ever known to man, to a private pilot for a politician who was quickly becoming the most powerful man in the world. 

“If I hadn’t been laid off in the aftermath of the 9-11 crisis, I’d still be piloting a commercial jet liner,” he muttered. “And I wouldn’t have been talking with Puccini today.” He shook his head. “I’m not so sure I wouldn’t be better off going back to my old job, if I could. But I don’t know why.” He shrugged. “Well, I’ve got to find a hotel to spend the night in.” 

Ryan hadn't been surprised to learn that Puccini would be holding a press conference soon, one that would be shown live on international T.V. Ryan had no intention of missing that. 

His shoes clicked on the sidewalk as he strode down the crowded sidewalk toward his rented Cadillac. When he neared the car, he frowned. Ryan felt an uneasy feeling in his gut about Puccini. Something about the guy was just...off. Ryan couldn't put his finger on it, but it was true. 

Then there was that secretary. Ryan was sure her eyes would haunt him for days. He'd seen lots of people in despair and clinging for something--anything--to give them support. Why then, did this girl especially touch him? 

His mind drifted to his loved ones. He had no way of knowing whether Christina, Richard, or baby Jessica were alive or dead. Whether they were still on earth or who knows where after vanishing, Ryan had no idea. 

That thought disturbed Ryan. The idea that he might no longer have his sister, best friend, and niece was almost too much for him. Maybe that was why he accepted the job. At least he’d have something in his life to make it worth living even if Christina, Jessica, and Richard were gone. Losing his mother in 9-11 had been horrible in itself, as losing Nicole had been for Richard. The thought of now having lost his sister and her family--he didn’t even want to think about that! 

_Enough,_ he almost said aloud. _Don't think like that. They’re fine._ He removed his car keys from his pants pocket. 

Ryan's thoughts returned to Puccini. He was such a kind man, so warm and open, yet something about him just gave Ryan the creeps. Ryan wasn't sure what, but he had a feeling, deep down, that trouble lay ahead. 

As he slid behind the steering wheel, he set his jaw in determination. Somehow, he was going to telephone his sister as soon as he checked into a hotel. He just had to make sure she was all right! 

**________________________**

Richard crossed the huge, empty park, swinging the flight bag at his side. As he trudged toward the far edge, deep sorrow and loneliness welled up in his heart. 

He'd never known a time in his life when he'd felt so alone, so hurt. With the exception of the occasional passenger approaching and thanking him--for what, he didn't know--Richard had been alone for over an hour. And it was dark. He could scarcely even see the stars above him because of the thick clusters of trees. 

He hated walking through any kind of park when he wasn't with Christina, Ryan, or someone else he cared about. And the fact that it was practically pitch-black didn't help matters either. A cool breeze caressed his cheek. 

Richard hated walking through open spaces in the dark. He focused so intently on the street lamp straight ahead, he failed to see the bush that came up to his knees before he bumped into it. 

Richard’s pants ripped on the sharp edges of the bush. He scraped his knees and lower legs as he fell. It was that horrid nightmare--he was living it all over again! 

Only when his stomach landed on the bush with a thump was he able to concentrate on anything but the horrible sensation of falling. That awful out-of-control feeling made Richard's heart leap into his throat. He swore violently. 

The physical sensation of falling was replaced with the prickly feeling of a bush underneath him. Richard swore again. 

Not wanting to risk veering off his track and getting lost--something that was completely possible in a place this size in the middle of the night--Richard stood up, backed up a few steps, and ran forward. 

Just as it seemed the bush would be tripping him again, Richard leapt into the air and forward--only to fall, once more. He was getting sick and tired of falling! The flight bag slipped out of his hand. 

As Richard landed on his stomach, a sharp pain shot through his left ankle. He winced and cried out in pain. He swore again, as he rocked back and forth, clutching his throbbing foot for five minutes. 

Biting his lip, Richard removed his shoe as best he could with as little pain as possible. He felt his foot through his sock. It had already swollen to nearly twice its normal size. Richard let out a string of profanities. 

With a determination stronger than his anger, Richard slid his shoe back on, but didn't tie the laces. Pressing his palms against the dewy-wet blades of grass, he shifted position. Slowly, he rose to his feet. Putting his weight on his swollen foot was painful, but Richard did it. One thought was driving him forward as, gritting his teeth, he picked up his flight bag. 

_I’ve gotta get home to Christina!_


	5. Chapter 4

Christina and Gloria crouched on the cool linoleum floor of Jessica's room. Reality of the situation was sinking in. Jessica was gone--right off the face of the earth--and Gloria knew that Christina had no idea if Richard or Ryan had suffered the same fate or not. 

“My baby,” Christina whimpered, over and over. Gloria found it almost unbelievable that this was the same woman who, only a few hours ago, was laughing hysterically at a movie and had been so vibrant. She crouched next to her hostess and laid a hand on her shoulder. If only there were some way to make her feel better! 

Christina had seemed to age several years since they’d gone to bed earlier. Her disheveled hair hung in her face, her hands shook, and tears streaked her face. She snuffled again and again. Gloria could only hold her. Silently, she begged God to help her friend. For a second, she looked around the bedroom, flooded with soft lamplight. 

“Gloria,” she said, shaking her head. “This can’t be real! I mean, surely, this is some horrible nightmare that I'll wake up from any minute.” Her voice shook, and she wiped her cheeks with her fingertips. 

Gloria had felt the same way from the moment she’d learned Jessica was missing. Still, she knew better than to think so. Especially after Tess' visit. 

Gloria said softly, “I don't think so Christina. As much as I want to think that, I can’t.” 

That broke Christina into sobs again, and Gloria wondered if she should have said that. But it was too late, it had already been said. A stab of guilt shot through Gloria’s heart as she held Christina again. Sometimes, she wished she had the gift of speaking the truth in a more tactful manner, as Monica could. Gloria, however, only knew how to be blunt. 

“I’m going back to bed.” Christina rose to her feet. As switched off the light and trudged out of the room, Gloria gazed at her sadly. 

_Please, Father,_ she silently prayed, _help her! And please help Richard and Ryan._ Rising to her feet, the angel returned to the guest room, where she slid under the soft bedcovers. As she listened to Christina sob herself to sleep, Gloria silently prayed for her. Within minutes, she fell asleep. 

**__________________________**

Richard clutched his flight bag against his hip as he limped across Central Park. He tried to walk as normally as possible, but when he held his weight on his injured foot for too long, it hurt to the point where he nearly blacked out the first time he'd tried it. 

He used the limp to his advantage though, taking long steps with his good foot, and making a quick hop with his bad, resulting in a skip-like run. 

A cool breeze caressed his cheek. Once, he glanced down at the grass at his feet. Each blade sparkled with dewdrops. 

It didn't take long for him to reach the street lamp that guided him through the park. Richard was surprised to find himself out of breath as he reached the sidewalk. Reaching forward, he grabbed the pole, perspiring and gasping for breath. 

The day had taken a lot out of him, that was certain. And running didn't help either. He wiped his perspiring face, then held it toward the sky to let the breeze cool his cheeks once more. 

Only then did he notice that it was becoming lighter. The sky around him became a lighter and lighter shade of blue, then began taking on tones of pink. 

Richard wanted to stop and admire the sunrise, but it didn't feel right to do that without Christina. He caught his breath, and continued limping. 

As he walked, the hot pink color of the sky turned to bright orange. Richard normally hated the color, but it seemed so right in the midst of a sunrise. He only wished he could share it with Christina. That, and stop his left ankle from throbbing. He glanced down at his flight bag, and continued his trek. 

Richard watched in awe as the sunrise sent small beams of light throughout the sky. It was a magnificent sight. He had seen numerous sunrises in the cockpit, and they never failed to fill him with awe. 

Richard continued limping. Determination to get home drove him forward. 

**__________________________**

Christina woke up suddenly. Rubbing her eyes, she looked at the clock, then raised her head to gaze out the window. _It’s dawn._

The mattress sagged and creaked as she pulled herself into a sitting position. Yawning, she rose from her bed and stumbled toward the bathroom. She had slept for almost two hours. Gloria, she knew, had gone to sleep in her guest room. 

_This is the worst time of my life,_ Christina thought, splashing her face with cold water. _I thought my mother’s death on September 11th devastating, but this is even worse!_ She sighed. _How am I going to tell Richard? What will I tell him? That our baby girl just disappeared without a trace?_

Moaning, she leaned against the sink, shaking her head. The smooth surface felt cold to her fingers. _And where is Richard? He should have been home long before now! Has he disappeared, too? Please, God, bring him home safely!_ Sighing, she dabbed her red, swollen eyes with a wet washcloth. _Where’s a cigarette? I need a cigarette!_

“Christina? Are you all right?” 

Christina turned around to see Gloria standing behind her. Christina had just trudged into the kitchen to fix breakfast. Now she sighed. “No, I’m not. Richard still isn’t home.” She choked back a sob. “Oh, Gloria! What am I going to do if Richard is gone, too? How will I cope with losing both my daughter and my husband? And--and my brother? Isn’t it enough that I’ve already lost my--my--!” She put her face in her hands. 

“Your mother?” Gloria asked softly. Christina nodded. Gloria squeezed her shoulder. “Pray for Richard, and put him in God’s hands. And Ryan, too. God is looking out for them, Christina--and for you.” Tilting her head, she smiled encouragingly at her friend. 

Christina raised her now tear-streaked face and nodded. The sweet smell of soap wafted toward Christina’s nose--evidently, her houseguest had washed her face just a moment before. As Gloria put her arms around the distraught woman, Christina whispered, “Please, God, take care of Richard and bring him home. And protect Ryan. Amen.” 

“Amen,” Gloria echoed. She stepped back. “I’ll clean up the living room while you make breakfast, OK?” Christina nodded, smiling wanly. She patted her hair and sighed. 

Sliding her glasses up the bridge of her nose, Gloria strode out of the kitchen. With a sigh, Christina opened the cabinet and pulled out a skillet. She still had to make breakfast--Gloria was probably hungry. _And if Richard does get home,_ she thought, _he will want breakfast, too!_ Gritting her teeth, Christina opened the refrigerator to open her carton of eggs. _I’ve a good mind to get a cigarette when we’re done. No reason not to smoke now._

**__________________________**

Richard moved as quickly as he could with his hurting ankle. He tried to ignore it, and this time he succeeded. 

The sun had risen halfway above the horizon, but the streets were deserted. Richard's eyes were blurred, he was exhausted, and his ankle was killing him. Suddenly, he stepped on a hollow in the ground. The next instant, he was falling down--again! As Richard landed with a thud on his stomach, he yelled in frustration. How many times would he have to fall? 

Pain surged through his ankle once more. Richard swore loudly. _Great!_ he thought. _This is the second time I've twisted my ankle since getting off that plane. I'm gonna be on crutches for a while when I get home!_

Richard stared at his foot, anger welling up inside him. Gritting his teeth in determination, Richard stood up. In a fit of rage, he raised his right leg backwards, swearing violently, and kicked a pebble against the nearest tree. _I’ve got to get home, somehow!_

As he turned to limp home, a car pulled up next to him. It was a bright red Cadillac convertible with its top down. A heavy African-American woman sat behind the wheel. Pearl earrings dangled from her ear lobes. 

“Hello, baby!” the woman called to him. “Could you use a ride?” 

Richard, still irritable from the fall and his hurting leg, snapped at her. “My name is not ‘baby.’” 

The woman retorted, “Well, excuse me if I don't know your name. I call everyone ‘baby,’ and you’re no exception. Now do you want a ride or not?” She wagged her finger. 

Richard nodded, and silently got into the car. _Boy,_ he thought, _this woman can slap you hard without laying her pinky on you._ He set the flight bag on the seat between the woman and himself. 

The woman smiled at him. “My name is Tess. How far is your house?” 

Richard nodded once. “Richard Daly. I live about ten blocks down.” 

Neither said a word on the ensuing drive. Richard didn’t feel like chatting, and to his relief, Tess did not try to get him to talk. 

Less than five minutes later, the car pulled up in front of his house. Grabbing his flight bag, Richard opened the door and stepped out. As he shut the door, he looked at Tess. “Thank you.” 

She nodded. “You’re welcome, baby.” 

Richard smiled at the term this time. He couldn't help but wonder if he would ever see her again, but that thought only lasted a moment when he realized he was only a dozen steps away from seeing Christina again. 

As the thrill of knowing he’d gotten home made his heart soar, Richard limped toward the porch. His boots clumped on the sidewalk extending from the curb to the porch steps. Gritting his teeth, he ignored his throbbing ankle. _I’m home, Christina!_

**__________________________**

Ryan perched on the edge of the hotel bed, with his hands in his pants pockets. The news played from the TV screen. There were many theories, and almost no evidence to support any of them thus far. 

Ryan bit his lower lip as the screen projected one horrifying image after another, telling of shocking incidences of accidents caused by people‘s disappearances, as well as grief-stricken people interviewed on camera who had lost loved. _This is terrible!_ he thought. _How much of this do Richard and Christina know? Wish I could get hold of them! The dratted phone lines have been tied up ever since I checked in._ He shook his head. 

Slowly, Ryan pulled his right hand out of his pocket. Slowly, he tugged at the knot in his tie, resisting the impulse to simply rip it off his neck. All the while, he kept his eyes on the television screen. 

Suddenly, Ryan was startled out his almost trance-like state by the jangling sound of his cell phone. Ryan caught his breath. “Maybe it’s Richard or Christina,” he muttered. 

Grasping his cell phone, Ryan pushed a button and held the phone to his ear. “Ryan Whittaker.” 

“Mr. Whittaker.” The accented voice of his new employer spoke in Ryan’s ear. “This is Antonio. I am afraid there's a question I forgot to ask you.” 

Disappointed, Ryan bit his lip. Too bad--he wished it’d been his sister or brother-in-law. As Antonio’s remark sank in, curiosity surged in Ryan’s heart. What kind of question was Puccini going to ask him? 

“I was planning on asking you for a recommendation. My airplane staff is short by a senior flight attendant. Since you are a pilot, I am assuming you have worked with a good many of them.” 

Ryan remembered his flight to Italy. The red-headed young flight attendant named Monica. He’d never worked with her, but there was something about her. 

“Uh…” Ryan paused. “Yeah, I think I do have a recommendation.” 

“Wonderful!” said Puccini. Ryan couldn't help but wonder how he could sound so cheerful. “Can you come back to the office? So we can talk about the flight attendant you are recommending?” 

“Of course, sir,” Ryan said. “Do you want me to come down there now?” 

“If you would.” 

As Ryan talked to Puccini, he found his mind wandering. He’d get a chance to work with that Monica woman. He didn’t know why, but he was looking forward to that prospect.


	6. Chapter 5

Christina leaped to her feet as the front door swung open. With a cry, she rushed toward her husband. “Oh, Richard!! Thank heavens, you’re back!” 

Richard hugged her, then disengaged her arms as he shut the door. “Are you OK?” He gazed at her with concern. Christina nodded. 

Removing his cap, Richard looked at Gloria quizzically. “Who’s this?” He tossed his cap on the sofa as he spoke. 

“This is Gloria.” Christina nodded toward her new friend. “We met yesterday, just down the street from Ground Zero. She spent the night with me--with you gone, I was lonely.” 

“Hello.” Gloria smiled. “Pleased to meet you, Mr. Daly.” With a tilt of her head, she extended her hand. 

Richard sighed. Without a word, he shook Gloria’s hand. To Christina’s relief, he did not scold her. She had feared that he would object to her inviting a strange woman over. She suddenly noticed that Richard was limping. “What happened?” 

“I sprained my ankle. Don’t ask me how--it’s a long story.” Setting his flight bag on the floor, Richard leaned against the wall, rubbed his face with his handkerchief, then glanced down at his now-swollen left foot. His eyes looked bloodshot. Christina choked back a sob and took a deep breath. Earlier, she had removed her slippers, so now the soles of her feet felt buried in the soft carpet spanning the living room. As Richard looked up at his wife, he straightened his back, and a concerned expression welled up in his eyes. “What’s wrong, honey?” 

Christina choked down another sob. “Oh, Richard--the most terrible thing has happened!” She bit her lower lip. 

_“What?”_ Richard grabbed her arms, pressing his fingertips against her upper arms. “Tell me! Is it Jessica? Has there been an accident?” 

“Yes, it’s Jessica!” Christina took a deep breath. “She disappeared last night--right out of her crib! While Gloria and I were asleep.” She shook her head from side to side. 

Richard froze. His face turned pale. “No,” he whispered. _“No!”_ He turned toward the wall and clenched his fists. Christina and Gloria gazed at each other worriedly. 

Slowly, Richard turned around. With trembling hands, he removed his jacket. “I may as well tell you, Christina--the same thing happened on my plane. My first officer disappeared, and so did a number of the passengers.” He tossed the jacket on the couch, next to his cap. 

Christina and Gloria stared at each other. _Could it be true?_ Christina wondered. _Dare I tell Richard what Gloria said?_

“Why are you two staring at each other like that?” Richard demanded. “Do you know something about this I don’t?” 

Christina took a deep breath. What she was about to say would make Richard furious, she knew, but she had no choice but to say it. “We--we might.” She swallowed hard. “We just might, honey.” Her voice trembled. Richard stared at her, a quizzical expression in his eyes. 

**__________________________**

Ryan paused in the doorway of Puccini’s office as Puccini’s secretary hurried down the hall towards the elevator. He couldn't help but smile slightly. They had talked on a formal level the whole way. Ryan had learned her name was Kristen Crossman, and a few other things. 

It was hard to do so, but Ryan forced all thoughts of his brief conversation with Kristen out of his mind and focused on what he was there for. Puccini, he noticed, was leaning against the right wall across the room in a relaxed stance. A shaft of sunlight flooded his office, illuminating his desk and forming a rectangle of light on the carpet. 

“President Puccini,” Ryan greeted as he entered. 

“Mr. Whittaker,” Puccini responded, amusement in his voice. “Did I not ask you to call me Antonio?” He straightened his back as he spoke. 

Ryan felt sick to his stomach. How could Puccini smile at a time like this? Didn’t this man realize millions of people all over the globe had vanished off the face of the earth that morning? Didn’t he realize this was not an appropriate time for smiles? Ryan bit his lip. He wasn't sure he wanted to work for someone like that, let alone be on a first-name basis with him. 

“I'm sorry, sir,” Ryan said, taking the chair he'd had during their earlier conversation. “I’ve just never addressed an employer by their first name, and I would prefer not to.” It wasn’t completely true, yet it wasn’t a lie either. Ryan had indeed called an employer by his first name once, back in college, but that employer had been his friend too. The last thing Ryan wanted was a friendship with Antonio Puccini. 

Shrugging, Antonio perched behind his desk. “Maybe when you get to know me better.” 

_Like I really want to,_ Ryan thought. He was surprised when he didn’t feel guilty after thinking it. He didn't like this guy, and wasn't ashamed of it, just afraid to admit it. 

Puccini cleared his throat. “OK, you said you have thought of someone to be my flight attendant. Who is it?” 

As he leaned back in the hard-backed chair, Ryan had no trouble at all projecting his mind back to the face of that smiling woman. He quickly mulled over everything he knew about her, and began talking. 

“Her name is Monica. I don't know her last name because she never worked for me. She was on the flight I came here on. She’s a knockout red-head with a cute accent. She’s really nice, polite, and professional, but she has a way of leaving an impression on you.” 

“So I noticed, from the way you speak of her,” Puccini said teasingly. 

Ryan wanted to scream and punch the man. _He wants me to call him by his first name, he picks on me about girls I meet, trying to be buddy-buddy with me. I'm supposed to be his pilot, not his best friend!_

Despite that, Ryan had to blush slightly. He told himself it was a cover for his angry thoughts, but it was true. Monica _had_ made an impression on him, but not because of her looks as Puccini seemed to think. Rather, it was because of her sweet personality and almost unforgettable love for everyone. 

“Yes,” Ryan admitted, unsure of why he was telling the man he already disliked more than nearly everyone on the planet about this. “But not for the reasons you think. She’s...uh, she’s just got this incredible love that shines on everyone. She strikes me as the kind to smile even at hardened criminals, and talk to them as though they were normal people.” He fidgeted on the chair’s unyielding wood seat. 

Puccini's teasing smile brightened, yet it still never quite reached his eyes. That was when Ryan felt the guilt from his previous comments. _Maybe he’s naturally a great smiler, and the kind of person who can find humor in everything, but the disappearances have devastated him to the point where all he can do is smile and make weak jokes._

Ryan tried to ignore the guilt. Puccini was still in the wrong with his smiles and jokes. What kind of man he was under other circumstances didn't change the fact that his attitude was uncalled for now. He clenched his fists in his lap and took a deep breath. 

“Sounds just like the kind of woman we need on our team,” Antonio said. “And do not worry about not knowing her last name. I have my ways of learning about people.” He leaned back as he spoke. 

Despite Puccini's warm smile, Ryan felt a chill in the room. If those words had been spoken in any tone other than the one used, they would have sounded like a threat. Ryan didn’t want to look into Puccini’s eyes, but he was drawn to them. Looking into those strangely colored, expressionless eyes, Ryan realized the full significance of what those words meant. He heard in his mind Antonio's words and voice as clearly as though Antonio had spoken them. _I would have my ways of finding you, too, if you dared try and run out on me, Mr. Whittaker. I have my ways._

**__________________________**

Richard waved his hand. “Never mind. Tell me later. I’ve got to turn on the news.” 

He picked up the remote control. As he pressed the power button with his thumb, he looked at his wife. “You called 911?” 

Christina nodded. “They haven’t sent anyone yet. They’ve got hundreds of these calls to respond to, the police sergeant says.” Richard pursed his lips in response, shaking his head. 

He remained standing as the TV set switched on. In a CBS special report, an anchorman was talking about the mass disappearances. “News has just come in of another plane crash,” the anchor said. “Rumor has it that the pilots and flight crew vanished at the moment of the mass disappearances. There were no survivors.” Christina shuddered. How thankful she was that nothing like that had happened to Richard or Ryan! 

Richard and Christina sat down on the couch, and Gloria perched in an armchair. The mattress sagged and creaked when Christina leaned back, leaning against her husband. As the anchor described detail after detail of chaos all over the world, all three sat silently, eyes glued to the TV set. Christina choked down a sob when the anchor spoke of missing babies and small children, and the strain the police departments were operating under, trying to keep up with the flood of calls from frantic parents. She twisted strands of hair around her index finger. Next to her, Richard took several deep, shuddering breaths. Gloria rubbed her fingers on the surface of the end table next to the armchair, back and forth. 

Finally, Richard turned the TV set off. “I’m sure all regular programming has been turned off,” he said. “There’ll be no regular programming for days, now.” He glanced at the _TV Guide_ , lying on the coffee table, as he spoke. Pain welled in his eyes. 

Christina nodded agreement. “No, there won’t.” 

With a sigh, Richard rose to his feet. He trudged toward the wall and leaned against it for a long moment. A moment later, he slammed his fist against the wall. 

Gloria approached him and laid a hand on his shoulder. He smiled wanly. “Thanks.” 

Smiling warmly, Gloria returned to her seat. Richard turned toward Christina. “You--you said you and Gloria might know something about this.” He paused. “What is it?” 

Panic welled up in Christina’s throat. She swallowed hard. 

“Well, honey--” Christina paused. “Maybe--uh, maybe God called them up. To Heaven, I mean.” 

“What do you mean?” Richard stiffened, as he whirled to face her. 

Raising her right hand to gently pat her hair, Christina paused to gather her thoughts. The mattress creaked underneath her as she fidgeted. “Maybe what the church has been predicting for centuries happened, last night. The Rapture, I mean. I never believed it till now, but after what happened--” 

“Stop! _No more!_ ” Richard’s face turned beet-red, and he clenched his fists into tight balls. “There is no God; that’s just a stupid fairy tale. Don’t you _ever_ bring that up to me again!! Do you hear?” 

Without waiting for an answer, he marched toward the TV set and turned it back on. He stood leaning against the wall as the picture came on. This time, Antonio Puccini appeared on the screen. Christina caught her breath. What on earth was the new Italian president doing on CNN now, of all times? 

“Already, some people are suggesting that the fabled Rapture took away the missing people, but in truth, there is a natural explanation for what’s happened.” The EU president leaned forward at his desk, clasping his hands. “For decades, nations in this world have conducted nuclear blasts, as they have tested their nuclear warheads. The fallout from those tests have since accumulated to the point where they have become a deadly threat to life on this planet. I am convinced that it killed and evaporated the missing people. Rest assured that I will do all I can to help the nations of the world remove that threat from our atmosphere.” 

With a frown, Gloria rose to her feet. As Puccini paused to clear his throat, she left the room. “Perhaps you are wondering why it did not kill everyone. I have a theory on that.” Puccini paused again. “Fortunately, there is not, yet, enough residue to kill everyone. It seems the radiation spread out till it filled holes in the planet that were only slightly larger than people. Whoever found themselves in those radiation pockets disappeared, and the rest of us stayed.” 

Richard approached the coffee table. Reaching for the remote control, he switched off the television. “There, you see?” He dropped the remote on the couch. “It was simply--” 

He froze. His face turned pale as the implications sank in. “It means our little girl has been vaporized in one of those pockets.” Biting his lower lip, he left the room. 

Shaking her head, Christina sighed. Maybe Puccini was right. Yet, as she returned to the kitchen to ladle out the scrambled eggs, bacon, and biscuits she had cooked earlier, something nagged at her. _Something is wrong with this whole picture,_ she thought. _But what? It makes sense the way Puccini said it, but something just doesn’t ring true._

All morning, Christina, Richard, and Gloria watched the news. They ate their breakfast in the living room so they wouldn’t have to stop doing so. In the process, they learned that the President and the Vice-President had also disappeared; oddly enough, the Speaker of the House made no statements. 

At one point, a policeman stopped by, apologizing for his long delay in responding to their calls. Christina and Gloria described the events of the night, Gloria filling in whenever Christina's memory failed her. 

“I wish I could promise you we will find your little girl.” Sadness creased the police officer’s eyes. “We will do our best.” 

“I know.” Christina bit her lip. “I know you will. With all these missing people…” Her voice trailed off. The police officer nodded. 

After he left, the Dalys and Gloria sat back down to watch the news once more. Several times, Puccini appeared on the screen to hold a press conference, much to Christina’s puzzlement. Why Puccini and not their own Speaker of the House? With the President and Vice-President missing, he was next in the order of succession. 

At last, Richard rose to his feet. “I’m worn out, Christina.” He shook his head. “I doubt very much I’ll be able to sleep, but I must try.” He picked up his cap and flight bag, and draped his jacket over his left arm. His boots thudded on the carpet as he trudged out of the living room. 

Christina rested her face in her eyes. Agonized sobs forced their way out of her throat. _Jessica--Jessica! My poor baby. Why’d you have to die like this!_

“Christina.” Gloria’s voice startled her. Christina raised her tear-streaked face to meet her new friend’s. “You think Jessica died, don’t you?” Gloria knelt in front of Christina. 

Christina bit her lip. “She must have, Gloria. If Puccini’s theory is right, then she did.” 

Gloria shook her head. “Puccini is not right, Christina. In fact, he’s dead wrong.” She perched on the couch next to Christina and laid her hand on Christina’s arm. “What I told you, earlier, was true: God did take up Jessica--He took her to Heaven and gave her a new body. Her, and every other baby and small child. Every Christian, too.” She smiled comfortingly. “Not only that, He resurrected every Christian who’s died from the first century till now. Including your mother. Jessica and your mother have new bodies, Christina!” Gloria paused. “I forgot to add--God is going to help your husband face the truth. He told me to tell you that.” She dropped her hand onto her lap. 

“Told you to tell me that?” Christina stared at her. “How? And for that matter, how do you know all this?” 

A golden light suddenly emanated from Gloria. “I’m an angel,” she said softly, rising to her feet.


	7. Chapter 6

In his hotel room, Ryan stared at his TV in disgust. Puccini seemed so...sober on the news. He was actually cheerful during the meeting! That wasn’t as sober as he could get! Puccini wasn't sorry at all. It was an act. He was just faking his sorrow, his supposed caring. Ryan rubbed his hands on his jeans as he leaned back in his chair. 

Ryan clicked off the screen. Puccini had given repeated press conferences, each time talking about his theory, and answering questions. Ryan had to admit, it was logical. Still, it made no sense why clothes had been left behind. Puccini had just been asked that very question. His response was almost hurried. 

“Although unconfirmed by scientists, my personal belief is that the radiation was not powerful enough to destroy cloth or metal of any kind, only human tissue.” 

Ryan thought it was just too convenient. There was something up with Puccini. Ryan couldn’t get what, but he could have sworn that what Puccini had said was out of his mind. Puccini had threatened him, plain and simple. Although Ryan didn’t understand how, he feared he had gotten himself into danger by accepting this job. He couldn’t believe what he’d gotten himself into. 

As he stared down at the cellular phone by his side, for the umpteenth time, Ryan wondered if Richard and Christina were OK. Unfortunately, phone lines were still jammed with people contacting their loved ones and making sure they were all right. Ryan had been trying to get through to his sister and brother-in-law every hour or so, without success. He’d resigned himself to trying to convince himself they were all right and focusing at the task at hand. _I’ll try again later,_ he thought. 

But what exactly was the task at hand? Ryan felt guilty for deciding to bring a sweet lady like Monica into this mess, but Puccini had asked for the best, and that’s what Ryan recommended. 

A wave of exhaustion swept over him. It had been a long day, that much was sure. His muscles still throbbed from the hard physical labor he'd put them through earlier, and jet lag was taking its toll on him. He wanted nothing more than to just crawl into bed, go to sleep, and wake up to find himself dozing on the plane and discovering that all of this was nothing but a nightmare. 

Although the last part of the wish was a little far-fetched, Ryan couldn’t help himself as he collapsed onto the bed. A two-hour nap wouldn’t hurt a thing. The mattress sagged under him as he curled on his side and laid his head on his left arm. 

**_______________________**

Christina's eyes widened in shock. She could barely comprehend what she was hearing and seeing. For a moment, it felt as if she’d lost all ability to speak. Finally, she was able to respond to Gloria's claim and new appearance. The soft couch mattress sagged under her hand as she pressed it down on the mattress’s surface. 

“No way!” was all she could say, as she gaped up at her angelic friend. 

Gloria just smiled. “It’s true.” 

Christina still didn’t believe it. Was she hallucinating? Or having a bad dream? _If only I was,_ she thought. _I’d love to wake up and find out that none of this had happened!_

Suddenly, from out of nowhere, another form appeared. She looked African-American and had a heavy-set figure. Her hair was a silvery color. She too, was glowing. A diamond brooch rested on her chest, just underneath her collar. 

“It’s true, baby. My name is Tess, and both Gloria and I are angels. Sent from God.” 

Christina's hand flew to her mouth. She leaned back against the couch backrest. This was too much. Her new friend was an angel, and now there was another angel standing in her living room. “Are--are you the friend Gloria told me about? The one who loaned her your car?” Tess nodded. Christina gaped at her for a long moment, then at Gloria. 

“What--what are you doing here? Why has God sent you to us? Because we lost our Jessica?” Christina’s voice trembled. 

“Well…” Gloria hesitated. “Yes and no.” 

By this time, tears had started to stream down Christina's face, tears of fear, tears of grief, tears she’d thought she‘d used up. “What do you mean?” she nearly shrieked. 

This time, Tess responded. “God sent us here, because He knew you’d need His love at this time as you never have before. What Gloria, here, told you about the Rapture is true. God has taken His Body--the Church--into Heaven. They are now, at this moment, standing before His judgment seat, receiving rewards for service. And they will stay in Heaven for the next seven years.” 

Christina bit her lip. “Something’s terrible is going to happen, isn’t it? That’s why He took them.” She paused. “He took the babies, too?” 

Tess nodded. “All babies, and all children under the age of accountability. And yes, a terrible time is coming upon the world. God wanted to protect His children from it, and He did. Your Jessica is safe in His hands, Christina. You don’t have to fear for her anymore.” 

Christina rose to her feet. As she trudged toward the wall, she took deep breaths. “And my mother?” 

“Yes, baby. Your mother not only is safe, she has a new body that can never be hurt. Or grow old. Or die. And so does Jessica.” Tess’s warm voice comforted Christina. “Your mother is alive once more, Christina. She will never die again. And your little girl, Jessica, will never know what it is to die or suffer.” 

For a long moment, Christina leaned against the wall’s smooth, sturdy surface, mulling over Tess had just told her. She twisted a strand of hair around her right index finger and took several deep breaths. Slowly, she turned to face the angels. “What--” She cleared her throat. “Uh, what does God want me to do?” 

“Give your heart to His Son.” Tess approached her. “Bask in His love. Listen for His voice. In the dark period that is approaching, you will need His love, His protection, and His guidance as you’ve never needed it before.” 

Christina laughed mirthlessly. “That dark time may be sooner than you think. When Richard learns of this, he will do everything in his power to make me miserable. He’s an atheist--he doesn’t believe in God.” 

“I know.” Tess shook her head. “He’s not beyond God’s mercy, Christina--not even now. God is working on your husband even as I speak. He’s going to send an angel into Richard’s life, to help him see the truth.” 

Christina smiled, as gratitude flooded her heart. “As Gloria, here, helped me.” Gloria smiled. Christina covered her face with her hands, and whispered a prayer. “Please, Jesus, come into my heart. Please lead me, and help me through this terrible time. Amen.” 

“Amen,” Tess echoed softly. 

Peace flooded Christina’s heart. As she raised her face, a smile spread across her face. “I feel His presence,” she said softly, then raised her head toward the ceiling. “Thank You, God! Thank You.” She brushed some strands of hair out of her eyes. 

“What are you doing?!” 

Christina whirled around. Richard framed the doorway, his face etched in a scowl. “I’m praying, honey,” she said softly. “To God. I’ve just accepted Jesus into my life.” 

Richard glared at her as he stalked toward the couch. “And tell me this: how can you possibly pray to a so-called-- _mythical_ God who doesn’t exist anyway?” he snorted. He clenched his hands into tight balls. 

Christina glanced at Tess, who shook her head. “He can’t see us now,” she said. “God will give you the words. Ask Him!” 

Silently, Christina did, then turned toward her husband. “He does,” she said softly. “I know it now. My mother is up in Heaven with Him, and now, so is Jessica. I want to be right with Him, Richard, so I can be with our little girl again, one day.” 

Richard’s face turned beet-red. He pressed his lips into a tight line of displeasure. A knot formed in Christina’s stomach; she knew she was in for it now! She held her breath as she awaited his response. 

“You-- _you--_!” Without another word, Richard stormed out the front door, slamming it behind him. 

Tears welled up in Christina’s eyes. “Please, God, help him!” she begged. 

Tess laid a hand on her shoulder. “He will,” she assured Christina. “As we told you, the Father is working on your husband. And not just Richard, but your brother, Ryan Whittaker. He’s sending Ryan an angel as well.” 

Christina wiped the tears out of her eyes and smiled wanly. “Well, with four angels helping us, we have no reason to worry, do we?” She took a deep breath. 

“No, you don’t.” Tess squeezed her shoulder. “Don’t say anything more to Richard just now; just pray for him. And read the Bible Gloria gave you. Read it every day, and ask God for insight.” 

Christina nodded. “I will, Tess. Thank you. And you, too, Gloria.” 

Tess straightened her back. “I must leave, now, but I’m leaving Gloria here with you.” She disappeared. 

Christina smiled at Gloria. “Would you like some coffee?” Gloria nodded and smiled back. 

**_______________________**

Monica walked slowly around the apartment she’d been given for this assignment. It was a nice place that fit her simple tastes well. Pausing, the Irish-tongued angel ran her hand over the coffee-brown table. The smooth, polished wood felt good under her fingers. 

As she looked the living room over, she realized that what made the place so comfortable was the furniture. She felt oddly detached from this apartment. As if this place was only a small part of her assignment and she would have to move on soon. 

The part that confused her most, yet seemed the most connected to her assignment, was the phone. Monica walked into the living room and plopped down on the beige couch. It was a comfortable couch, and if Monica had been sleepy in the least, she might have fallen asleep right there. But before she even got the chance to let her mind consider the possibility of sleep, someone else appeared in the room. 

“Hello, Angel Girl.” Tess’s voice broke into her thoughts. 

A startled Monica pushed herself up and swung her legs off the couch. “Hello, Tess,” she said quickly, hoping Tess wouldn't be irritated at her for nearly falling asleep on an assignment. “I really like this apartment. I don’t understand why the Father gave it to me but it’s really nice, and the tables and furniture are great. And I really like the coffee table, Tess, but I don’t understand why the Father gave me a phone.” She propped her fingers as she babbled on. “I don’t think I’ll need it or anything but…” 

Tess interrupted. “Miss Wings, Miss Wings, Miss Wings.” Monica looked at her supervisor, swallowing a lump in her throat. Clasping her hands in front of her waist, Tess continued to speak. “You were given the phone because your assignment will begin with a phone call. You were given the apartment so your move will seem more realistic, and you were given the furniture to live on for the next month or so.” 

Monica sighed with relief at her supervisor’s obvious lack of anger. The mattress sagged and creaked underneath as she shifted position. She started to speak when the phone rang. She hesitated, but when Tess gave a quick nod, she picked up the receiver. “Hello?” 

“Miss Welleye?” said a man with an Italian accent. Monica recognized the voice as that of Antonio Puccini, the man who had been making those ridiculous claims about the Rapture really being the effect of nuclear testing. _Welleye,_ she thought, as she recalled the last name she had assumed when God had assigned her to serve jury duty once, almost two years before. How had President Puccini gotten hold of that information? 

“Yes?” Monica responded, her own Irish accent thickening in her nervousness. She glanced at Tess, who leaned against the wall. 

“Yes, Miss Welleye. This is Antonio Puccini.” 

Although she already knew that, Monica almost shot up in her seat, surprised that he was calling her. An exchanged glance with Tess told her this phone call was the key to her assignment. _I wonder why,_ she thought. 

“President Puccini,” Monica said, “what a surprise.” 

“You must be wondering why I am calling you,” Puccini continued. 

Monica nodded, then she remembered that Puccini couldn’t see her, and said, “Yes.” She rested her left hand on the arm of the couch. 

“Well, it so happens I am in need of a new senior flight attendant on my personal plane. And you have been recommended to me as among the best flight attendants on Pan-World Airways. I am requesting that you transfer from your current job.” 

Monica’s heart was racing. So _this_ was her assignment! She was to be a senior flight attendant for Antonio Puccini, for what reason she didn't know. Yet somehow, this didn’t seem like the normal assignment for her. For one, she was being hired in the same ways as humans, instead of the Father getting a job for her. 

Monica looked uneasily at Tess. Something inside her made her want to receive some reassurance about this job offer before agreeing to take it. 

“I’ll have to give that some thought,” Monica said. “Is there any way I can contact you when I make my decision?” 

Puccini quoted a phone number to Monica, which she scribbled down on a piece of paper. 

“Thank you for the offer, President Puccini. I’ll be in touch when I make my decision. Goodbye.” Monica knew she sounded hurried and almost rude, but she had to talk to Tess...and pray about this. She hung up before he could get in another word. 

“Tess,” Monica protested. “I don’t understand this. Is Antonio my assignment?” 

“No, baby,” Tess said. “Have you forgotten? His pilot, Ryan Whittaker, is your assignment.” 

Monica let out a long sigh. “That means I have to take the position. It’s part of my assignment.” 

Tess nodded, and Monica put her hands on her knees. At that moment, the sunlight pouring through the French doors that stood open, facing the balcony, disappeared under a bank of clouds, giving her the chills. She didn’t trust Puccini. She wasn’t sure why, but something about him gave her an uneasy, creepy feeling. She didn’t want to tell Tess, let alone ask her, about that creepy feeling. Maybe she would be able to judge him better when she met him in person. Perhaps after a cup of coffee, she would feel better about the assignment. She took a long, shuddering breath, then faced her supervisor. 

“Tess…” Monica protested. 

“Don’t ‘Tess’ me, Angel Girl. This is a big part of your assignment. Now I know it’ll be hard for you, but you have to do it. Now that the Tribulation’s almost upon us, it’s even more dangerous to walk out on assignments than it’s ever been before.” 

Monica slumped against Tess. Tears started to well up in her eyes. Tess wrapped her arms around Monica and held her in a comforting embrace. 

“It’s gonna be all right, baby,” Tess said softly. “It’s going to be all right.”


	8. Chapter 7

Three days later, Ryan looked around the Roman apartment Puccini had provided for him. Despite how nice this it was, Ryan didn't quite feel at home there yet. It was a nice place. Well-furnished, complete with a balcony that nearly surrounded the entire apartment. A soft, wall-to-wall carpet spanned the living room. A flood of sunlight poured through the French doors, forming a rectangle of light on the carpet. 

Being on the third floor made Ryan feel like he was always flying. Puccini had certainly picked a place where Ryan would want to live. Inserting his fingers into his jeans pockets, Ryan leaned against the wall to ponder the situation. 

One thing about Puccini: he knew how to get what he wanted. If it hadn’t been for the mental threat, Ryan might actually want to work here. If it weren’t for the sick feeling in his stomach whenever he looked Puccini in the eye, again receiving that mental threat from his new boss, Ryan would enjoy the whole thing. 

Ryan decided to open the French doors that led onto the balcony. A lump formed in his throat as he did so. He’d been living here for almost three days now. He had finally gotten through to Richard and Christina, the day after his move; he had not spoken with them since. At least they were both fine, although they were grieving baby Jessica’s disappearance. Still, something was nagging at him. But what? 

He'd long since recognized the nagging feeling as guilt, but he didn't know what about. He had contacted Richard and Christina as soon as he could. He had done his best to help after the disappearances, and he had taken a great job working for someone who promoted peace. He couldn’t think of anything that would make him feel guilty. Still, the guilt weighed so heavily on him he wanted to cry. Ryan tried to shove the guilt to the back of his mind by admiring the view from his balcony. 

The scenery was beautiful. Despite a high vantage point, other buildings of the same height blocked his view of the city. But when looking slightly upwards, he could see a huge mountain range. The slopes folded into each other and peaks each stood separately. Scattered clumps of clouds dotted an otherwise deep blue sky, and a cool breeze caressed his cheeks. 

The sight just made the lump in his throat worse. Ryan tried to swallow, to hold back the tears. He couldn’t cry. He _wouldn’t_ cry! 

To his relief, he heard the cell phone ring from inside. Ryan spun around and raced back through the door; in his haste, he nearly tripped over an armchair. 

It took Ryan under ten seconds to plop onto the couch and answer the phone. “Hello?” he said. 

Puccini's voice greeted him. “Ryan. It’s Antonio.” 

Ryan felt bile rise in his throat at the familiarity of first names. Still, after that scary experence in Puccini's office, Ryan dared not disagree with him. So, at Puccini’s request, Ryan was on a first-name basis with him. Still, he maintained a little formality. “Hello, Antonio.” 

“Ryan, I have met the young woman you recommended to me--Monica. It turns out her full name is Monica Welleye, and she is just the way you described her, and even more.” It was then that Ryan realized the source of his guilt. Recommending anyone to work for this man was...he didn't know why that was bad exactly...but it was the source of his guilt. He was sure of it. He feared he’d made a terrible mistake in recommending her. 

“Would you come by my office and meet her?” Puccini asked. Ryan, who had nearly collapsed at the revelation, was silent for a moment, but before Puccini could ask if he was still there, he recovered enough to say something. 

“Sure,” he said. “When?” 

“Just as soon as you can get here.” 

Out of habit, Ryan nodded his acquiescence. “Give me a few minutes to change clothes.” 

His mind wandered as he wrapped up his conversation with Puccini. What had he been thinking, recommending a nice girl like her to a man like him? _Oh well,_ he thought, _what’s done is done, and it’s too late to do anything about it now._

**_____________________________**

Richard couldn't help but smile. He felt good. 

It had been three days since he’d sat in his car, three days since he’d been outside the house, and three days since he had worked. How wonderful it felt to get out of the house once more! And on such a nice day like this, too, with the sky devoid of clouds and such a pleasant breeze wafting against his face as he had walked outside toward his car. 

Hitting a small bump in the road destroyed his feeling of perfection, sending shoots of pain through his swollen ankle. OK. So maybe he wasn’t feeling great, but escaping was a wonderful feeling despite his still unhealed ankle. His flight bag sat next to him on the front seat. 

Christina had been different since he’d caught her praying. And he suspected that her new friend Gloria had been the cause of that difference. Every day, they would disappear for hours at a time, doing who knew what. Richard guessed from what they said it had something to do with religion, but he wasn’t sure. Richard pursed his lips at the thought. 

That's why Richard was anxious to get back to work. Christina had been driving him nuts as of late. And the absence of Jessica made home life all the harder. He never thought he’d miss her constant wailing at night, or the way she's scream her head off the spur of the moment. But he did. 

Right now, he pushed all thoughts of that out of his mind. He’d gotten a call from his boss, John Taylor, that morning, telling him that there was a new first officer to replace Timothy waiting for a flight to Los Angeles. As much as he hated to admit it, he actually missed Timothy too. 

_I’m glad to hear I’m getting a new first officer,_ he thought. _Suppose we have another disaster like the one we had a few days ago? We came that close to crashing!_ He shuddered at the memory. 

Another memory came into his mind that made him shudder a second time. Two nights before, someone had tried to break into their home, and the police had not been able to send anyone to stop him. Richard had sneaked downstairs with a baseball bat, and had frightened the man off. Since then, the news had been full of stories of criminals robbing people’s homes, raping and murdering innocent people in broad daylight, and looting now-empty stores. Downtown areas looked like war zones. 

_At least, Christina won’t be going to Ground Zero for a while._ Richard sighed. He had made her promise, the day before, that she would not leave the house unless he was with her, not even to go shopping. He would buy their groceries until things settled down. _I may hate her getting on this new religious tangent, but I’m still a good husband!_ He grimaced. 

At the airport, he limped into his boss’s office. John Taylor rose to his feet and circled his desk. “How’s the ankle?” 

Setting his flight bag on the smooth, polished pine desk, Richard bent over to rub it. “Still swollen, but mending.” 

“Good.” John nodded toward the back corner. A man with sandy-brown hair, cut above his ears, approached John and Richard. He had on a uniform and a pilot’s cap, and he grasped a flight bag in his right hand. John smiled. 

“Richard, meet Andrew. He’s just been hired to take Timothy’s place.” 

Andrew shook Richard’s hand. “A pleasure to meet you, Captain Daly.” 

“Thanks.” Richard smiled. “You, too.” Andrew’s eyes, he noticed, radiated caring. Whom had he recently seen with eyes like that? He scratched his arm as he tried to remember. 

John looked at the clock. “Better hustle, you two--your flight to Los Angeles will be commencing in an hour.” 

“Yes, sir.” Richard picked up his flight bag as he spoke. Turning to Andrew, Richard nodded toward the door. “Come with me--I’ll show you where our plane is.” With a nod, Andrew followed him into the hall. 

**_____________________________**

Ryan walked down the hallway to Puccini’s office. His shoes made soft thuds in the carpet as he approached the door, and his black tie felt tight around his throat. He had reluctantly changed into a business suit before leaving his apartment. _Straightjacket and noose, indeed,_ he thought, grimacing down at the jacket that covered his bleached, snow-white shirt. An overwhelming urge to yank his tie off and toss it into the nearest trash can welled up in him. _There ought to be a law against these things!_

He felt foolish for even having this resentment. All the years he'd worked as a commercial pilot, he'd had to wear a tie as part of his uniform. In truth, he had sought to avoid it as much as possible. He would wear the tie until he was in the cockpit and the plane was off the ground; then he'd remove the tie and lay it aside until it was time to land. And ever since his layoff months before, he hadn't even had to do that. 

It almost made him sad that he knew his way around now and he only saw Kristen for brief seconds as he passed her desk. He seriously considered visiting her someday, since she lived in the apartment right below him, as he had recently learned. He wouldn’t be able to do that any time soon, because his schedule would be quite full for the next several weeks. 

Ryan paused to rub his hands on his jeans, then slowly opened the door to Puccini’s office. Almost instantly, before he’d opened it halfway, a smell drifted toward his nostrils that his body did not welcome. It was familiar to him because he had often smelled the same thing on his sister's clothes, in a lighter version. His head spun, his knees buckled, and he leaned against the doorknob. As he fought down nausea, thankfulness surged through him that he hadn't had a full reaction to the smoke. 

Ryan forced himself to open the door the rest of the way. As he suspected, there sat Puccini at his desk, cigarette in hand, talking on the phone. Even as Ryan walked in, Puccini blew out a line of smoke. Ryan’s head began to throb. 

Leaning against the doorknob, he mumbled, “Oh, God. Help.” He didn’t know if he was praying or not. 

Puccini snapped to attention. “I will call you back, Elijah...OK, good-bye.” He hung up. “Ryan! Good to see you.” 

_Elijah, again,_ Ryan thought, clutching his stomach. _What do Elijah and Puccini have going between them, anyway? Shouldn't it be his new prime minister Puccini deals with, and not the Israeli foreign minister?_

Ryan's vision blurred as his eyes unfocused; he tried to steady himself. He was tempted to puke on the carpet, but decided to fight the urge. “Pr...” Ryan began weakly, then corrected himself, in the same tone. “Uh, Antonio.” He moved away from the door only to lean against the smooth paneled wall. 

Puccini leaped to his feet and rushed toward Ryan’s side. Ryan wondered what his new boss had done with the cigarette, as it was no longer in his hand. Still, he was grateful for the hand that grasped his elbow and steadied him. “Are you all right?” 

“I should’ve told you before,” Ryan said, deciding that it was best to take responsibility in this matter. “I get along with cigarette smoke about as well as...well, as Superman gets along with Kryptonite.” 

With an apologetic look, Puccini rushed back to his chair. Evidently, he knew the story of Superman. Grabbing the cigarette, he squashed it between his fingers before setting it in an ashtray. Ryan still couldn't breathe; the smoke in the room was too thick. 

“There,” Puccini said. “The Kryptonite is safely hidden in the lead-lined box.” Despite Ryan’s unfocused eyes he noticed a smirk on Puccini’s face. But while the smirk slowly widened, no smile appeared in the man’s eyes. 

Ryan barely managed to plaster a weak, amused smile on his face. Who would have thought that one of the most powerful men in the world was a Superman fan? He winced as his head throbbed. 

“Come on.” Grasping his arm, Puccini raised Ryan fully to his feet. “We will go to a conference room. That way, you will not have to breathe the smoke.” Puccini spoke quickly into an intercom by the door. “Kristen, please inform all guests I will be in conference room #3 until further notice.” 

The familiar voice responded, “Yes, sir.” 

As Ryan followed Puccini down the hallway, Ryan let his mind wander to Puccini’s secretary. Kristen's accented voice was nearly as perfect as every other aspect of her. She had an excellent figure, and dark hair that was always swept up. Small curls framed her face. Her dark eyes were always wide and aware, showing every emotion in her heart. Ryan's own heart skipped a beat when he looked at her. Not only was she attractive, but he felt something special for her. She seemed to have a heart of gold. He remembered clearly the devastation he'd seen on her face the day of the disappearances, and the twinkle that had slowly returned to them over the next few days. 

He shook his head, trying to stop himself from daydreaming. His legs still felt like rubber, his stomach still churned, and his head still pounded. But he was already breathing more easily, now that he was inhaling clean air. At least he no longer needed help to stay upright. 

At the end of the hall, they entered the conference room. Ryan took note of its size, as well as the length of the polished mahogany conference table, lined with high-backed mahogany chairs. Puccini slowly helped him sit in a chair nearest the door. 

Despite his misery, Ryan couldn’t suppress a grin. Here was Antonio Puccini, President of Italy and of the European Union, acting worried about a little exposure to cigarette smoke. The thought nearly made Ryan roll on the carpeted floor in hysterical laughter, but he controlled the urge and used his arms to balance properly. 

Puccini shut the door before taking the seat across the table from him. Despite his manner--that that of a worried older brother--looking into Puccini's eyes re-confirmed Ryan’s mistrust of him. “Are you all right?” Puccini asked, concern in his voice. Still, his eyes remained emotionless. 

Ryan nodded. “I...” He cleared his throat. “I think so. Thanks.” He folded his arms on the table’s smooth surface as he spoke. 

Puccini let out a sigh of relief, then said in a half-joking tone. “That is good. I could not let anything happen to my private pilot.” 

Puccini didn’t seem to notice Ryan’s wan smile. Instead, he said, “I have some news for you.” 

Ryan's curiosity was piqued. What kind of news could Puccini have for him? He sat up straight, widening his eyes, resting his hands on the smooth surface of the table. 

Puccini continued speaking calmly, as though not noticing Ryan's sudden reaction. “The recommendation you gave me yielded a most a fruitful search. The flight attendant you were talking about--Miss Welleye--is indeed Irish, and surprisingly new to the job of being a flight attendant. Yet she comes with an excellent recommendation: she handled the crisis superbly, on the day of the mass disappearances.” 

Ryan's eyebrows arched. Despite his churning stomach, he couldn’t help being confused at the thought that Monica wasn’t an experienced flight attendant. She had seemed so in control, and as Puccini had said, she had handled the crisis with the skill and calm of a seasoned attendant. His confusion mixed with relief that Monica hadn’t been killed in a related accident following their flight. Ryan smiled. 

“Monica should be arriving in Rome as we speak. She will be with us for the big flight to New York. We will wait for her here until she arrives. We have to be in the air in less than two hours. You will find your flight bag, containing your uniform, in a bathroom down the hall.” 

Ryan felt a stab of guilt at Puccini's statement. His headache and stomach ache grew worse. _What have I gotten the poor girl into?_

**_____________________________**

Richard slowly steered the huge machine. Despite the slow movements of his hands and arms, the plane was moving fast--faster than any car in the world. He frequently looked out the windshield at the fleecy clouds drifting past the plane. The only reason he wasn't taking advantage of the auto-pilot was because he needed something to distract him. He looked down at the instrument panel and scowled. 

Conditions at home had gone from bad to worse. With Jessica gone, Richard had expected Christina to start smoking in the house, but to his surprise she seemed determined to give up the habit altogether. He often noticed the guilty look on her face when she would even pick up a cigarette. She claimed, “I’m just hurting myself, Richard. And by doing that, I’m damaging God's temple.” 

Richard fought back the growl of frustration that wanted to come out of his mouth, and tried to keep himself from clenching his fists over the wheel. On top of all that, she had argued, when he forbade her to leave the house in his absence, that surely she would be safe with Gloria, but he had put his foot down. Reluctantly, Christina had acquiesced. _She’d better be staying home, as she promised!_ He took a deep breath as he fought to regain control of his emotions. 

“You take over, Andrew,” he said, trying not to let his anger show. 

Andrew glanced at him, concerned. “Is something wrong?” he asked, grasping his own wheel. Richard relinquished control of the plane and leaned back in his seat. 

“Nah,” he said, almost too quickly. “At least, nothing I want to talk about.” He clenched his fists as he spoke. 

Andrew only reacted with his facial expression. As he focused straight ahead, Richard suddenly found himself amazed at Andrew's ability to concentrate on two things at once. After a moment, Andrew spoke. “Let me guess; it has something to do with the disappearances last week.” 

Richard nodded, then became aware that Andrew couldn't see him. “Yeah.” He glanced sideways at his first officer. 

Andrew nodded firmly, and although his body language said it, he voiced what Richard already knew he was thinking. “I thought so.” 

Silence. 

Richard hated silence; it always spoke too loudly. So instead, he told Andrew everything that had been going through his mind. “My wife’s been on a stupid religious kick since we lost our baby.” 

Andrew bit his lip. Richard suspected, from the way he almost flinched, that the disappearance of the children had to be a sore spot for him. 

“Sorry,” Richard said. “Did you lose anyone?” 

To Richard's surprise, Andrew shook his head. “No, no. All my friends are still around.” Richard found that hard to believe, and even more so when Andrew lapsed into silence. He removed his cap to rub his hair, front to back. The mattress creaked underneath him when he shifted position slightly. 

“But…” He hesitated, as he remembered that Timothy used to do the same thing to him. How Richard had hated that! But in the aftermath of the disappearances, everyone needed to talk to someone. 

“But…” Andrew paused. “I haven’t seen my friend Monica since the day of the disappearances. She's a flight attendant, and she got this job working for that Italian guy, Puccini. I haven’t heard from her since.” 

“She’s just your friend?” Richard asked, in a teasing tone that clearly said he didn't believe that for a moment. 

Andrew's cheeks and ears turned a bright shade of red. “Yeah...Just a friend.” 

Despite the fact that Richard didn’t believe him, he let it go. Changing the subject, Richard said, “You know, my brother-in-law just started working for Puccini. He’s a pilot, too.” 

Andrew raised his eyebrows. “Oh, really?” 

Richard nodded, as once again, silence settled over the cockpit. Minutes passed. Tumult churned in his heart as he thought about the recent events and the change that had taken place in his wife. 

Finally, Richard broke the silence by saying, “You know, Puccini’s coming to New York soon. Maybe you’ll meet up with Monica then. Christina and I are planning on meeting her brother when he gets here.” 

Despite his attempt to hide it, Richard noticed Andrew seemed quite glad to hear that. “I hope so.” 

Richard nearly laughed. Andrew had a way of blushing that made one want to burst into chuckles. Did Andrew really expect Richard to believe Andrew and this Monica lady were only friends? After all, he hadn’t been born yesterday! At that moment, a memory shot into Richard’s mind. Monica’s eyes radiating caring, same as Andrew’s! _Two of a kind,_ he thought. _No wonder they’re close!_

**_____________________________**

Monica paused at the door of Conference Room #3. She had on a flight attendant’s uniform, and pearl earrings dangled from her ear lobes. She couldn’t help but think it strange that she’d been told to meet President Puccini in the conference room instead of Puccini's office. She shook her head. It was always possible he was meeting with more people than just her and needed some extra room. Monica shrugged, as she silently wondered why she was even thinking about it when she was about to meet one of the most powerful men in the world. Resolutely, she pushed the door open. 

When she entered the room, both men rose to their feet instantly. Monica noticed that while it seemed like a reflex on the part of her assignment, Ryan Whittaker, it appeared to be done as an afterthought at the part of Antonio Puccini. Sunlight poured through the window at the back of the room. 

Puccini looked almost exactly like the way she’d pictured him. His hair was jet-black and combed neatly. His facial features were clearly Italian. He appeared well-muscled and was quite tall. But his eyes seemed to stand out. At first glance, she thought them to be a honey brown. But upon a closer look she saw them to be greenish-gold. That seemed an odd switch that she could only explain as the lighting of the room. 

Ryan, on the other hand, was an inch or two below six feet. He had sandy-blond hair that reminded her briefly of Andrew. He was also rather muscular, and you could guess from looking at him that he was more comfortable in jeans and a flannel shirt than in the business suit he was wearing. His eyes were less confusing, more warm and open than Puccini’s. They were a dark shade of blue. 

Monica smiled warmly at the men. “Hello,” she said. “I’m Monica. Monica--Welleye.” The last name felt unnatural to add on to her given name, but she remembered to do so, to keep from sounding odd. 

Both Ryan and Puccini stepped forward to shake her hand. Looking at Ryan, she realized he looked a little pale. She then noticed that no matter what emotion registered in Puccini’s voice and on his face, none showed in his eyes. “It is nice to meet you, Monica.” 

Puccini put so much emphasis on her name that Monica knew that she wouldn’t be able to talk him into calling her Miss Welleye even if she wanted to. But despite the fact that he seemed to be friendly, a sick feeling in her gut when he addressed her made her wish he’d be slightly more formal. 

A flash of fear ran through her that he knew she was an angel. Why that thought scared her, she couldn’t say...but it did. She shot a silent prayer to God for protection and guidance, then sat down next to Ryan and propped her fingers together on the conference table. The smooth surface felt cool to her wrists. 

After a few moments of conversation, Monica realized that she’d be going to New York in a few hours. Puccini wouldn't explain why, only that he was making a trip to New York City that day. _Maybe,_ she thought, _I’ll be able to meet with Andrew and Gloria. I haven’t seen either of them since the day of the Rapture._ The thought of spending time with her fellow angels brought a smile to her face. 

She quickly shook thoughts of such a gathering from her mind. Instead she focused on Puccini’s eyes. They were indeed a greenish-gold, but at the same time they were indeed honey-brown. It was as if they formed an ever-changing pattern that Monica almost found hypnotic. Antonio leaned forward, folding his arms on the table, as he explained their current duties. 

The hypnotic influence of Puccini’s eyes made Monica nervous, but with determination, she focused all the more. She tried to glimpse his past...his childhood...anything to give her a clue as to who he really was. Nothing. At the point where she would normally have seen a flashback, she saw nothing but blackness. Something about the blackness seemed dangerous, and Monica drew herself out of it, shifting her focus on Ryan’s words for a few moments. She then withdrew mentally again, silently praying for guidance. Something about Puccini scared her, and she would sorely need the Father’s guidance for this assignment! 

She was only mildly surprised to realize they'd noticed she’d seemed to tune them out. “Earth to Monica!” Puccini’s words startled her out of her reverie. 

“Sorry,” she said. “I guess I just...tuned out.” She felt a blush creeping over her face. 

Ryan and Puccini nodded, understanding. Then Ryan said, “Well, to fill you in, you’ve got the apartment next to mine. I’m supposed to give you a ride to the airport, if you want. Since you’ve already got your uniform on, you won’t need to change, but you _will_ need to take an overnight kit with you.” He scratched his neck. 

Monica nodded, indicating that was agreeable to her. She was still shaking. She knew one thing now that she hadn’t known before: Antonio Puccini was dangerous. 

**_____________________________**

Antonio leaned back in his office chair, minutes after his new employees had left. A marijuana cigarette dangled between his fingers, as he inhaled the smoke. So, it seemed he had a rival. Strange. When Ryan had mentioned a flight attendant named Monica, he’d thought her to be the perfect addition to his staff. From Ryan’s description, she had seemed to be just the kind of person he needed to make a good impression on those who rode in his plane. What he hadn’t counted on was her being an angel. Antonio shook his head and pursed his lips, then glowered down at his polished desk. 

What angered him even more than the fact of her being an angel was knowing that she’d nearly learned the whole truth about him. She could have seen the danger instead of just feeling it, and that would have ruined everything. Fortunately, fear had gripped her, and for that, Puccini was thankful. 

He remembered the moment when Ryan and Monica had left the conference room--Ryan had opened the door for Monica as they did so. Clearly, Ryan Whittaker was the perfect gentleman. That made Puccini nervous, wondering if his new pilot’s attitude towards women was any indication of his character. The threat Puccini had made silently a few days ago should keep him from bolting, Puccini decided, but he couldn’t help but wonder about Ryan’s sense of ethics. Someone who was allergic to cigarette smoke had to be as close to perfect as humanly possible. 

Even the reference to Superman had told Puccini that Ryan seemed to have a high sense of morals. No one could be even the slightest bit a fan of Superman without at least fairly good morals. Oh, Puccini was familiar with the Superman legend, but only because he was fascinated by the villains. 

Puccini let out a long breath. He wasn’t thinking clearly. He needed to clear his mind, to let himself relax. He had to trust Lucifer to know that Ryan would one day be on their side. He smashed the marijuana stub against his ash tray and went down to the cafeteria to get himself a snack. He needed to call Dayan back when he returned. He also needed to call the new pope, later.


	9. Chapter 8

Ryan followed Monica up the apartment steps. Despite the fact that it was he, not Monica who knew where he was going, that irritating gentleman in him insisted on “ladies first.” At one point, she paused to pat the side of her flight attendant uniform. Her shoes and his thudded on the stairs. 

Monica paused at the landing where the stairs branched off in two directions. She glanced at Ryan with a puzzled look. Before she could say a word, he answered the question she formed on her lips. “Left,” he said simply. 

Monica turned to the left, and Ryan followed. It only took a moment for them to arrive at her new apartment. For a moment, Monica looked from door to door. “That one’s mine.“ Ryan pointed at the door to the right. “This one’s yours.” 

Pausing at the mahogany door, Monica inserted her key into the lock. It opened easily. Monica framed the doorway for a moment, scanning the living room. Ryan hopped from foot to foot outside, waiting to be allowed in. As he controlled the burst of impatience, he rubbed his hands on his pants. 

To his surprise, Monica burst into peals of laughter. Ryan’s curiosity rose. “What?” 

Monica gestured for him to look over her shoulder. Ryan did so. The apartment looked empty. But as he looked over the living room, he saw, in one corner, a huge pile of furniture and appliances. Tables, chairs, a couch, love seat, refrigerator, and the rest lay in a heap against the paneled wall. A burst of uncontrollable laughter escaped from his throat. 

“I think...” Ryan gasped through his laughs. “I think you need some help here.” He leaned against the wall by the doorway, doubled over. 

Monica nodded agreement, her giggles subsiding. “Yes, I do.” Then, after a pause, she said, “Is that an offer, Captain Whittaker?” She took a deep breath. 

Ryan's laughter also subsided. “Well, I couldn’t very well leave you to try and sort through that pile by yourself.” 

He looked towards Monica, and their eyes locked. The look alone was enough to send them both into peals of laughter all over again. “Come on,” Ryan gasped. “Let’s see what all you have there.” 

Fifteen minutes later, pieces of furniture littered the living room. Even the refrigerator stood against the wall, next to the kitchen entrance, and an unmade bed stood near the center of the room. Monica and Ryan looked at the progress they had made so far. Ryan put his hands on his hips, and Monica folded her arms, smiling. 

“Well,” observed Ryan, rubbing his pants, “at least you can see all of it now.” Monica nodded agreement. Without warning, the two of them burst into more fits of laughter. 

At last, Ryan leaned against the wall, wiping beads of sweat off his face. Monica winced. “Forgive me, Mr. Whittaker. You must be thirsty.” She wiped her hands on her pants. “Would you like some water?” 

Ryan nodded. “Thanks; that would be good.” He collapsed into an armchair and thrust his hands into his pants pockets. Monica’s shoes thudded softly in the soft carpet as she hurried toward the kitchen doorway. Ryan leaned against the back of the chair and relaxed. It felt so good to sit down! 

When Monica brought him a glass of water, he rose to his feet and thanked her. Wrapping his fingers around the glass, he held it up to his lips. The wet coolness felt good on his parched throat. 

Swallowing a gulp, he sighed. “Well, I’m wondering how my sister and Richard are holding out.” He shook his head. “Jessica was the sweetest little niece a bachelor could have. It’s so hard to lose her.” He bit his lower lip. “It’s even harder for Christina and Richard.” 

“It certainly is.” Sympathy welled up in Monica’s voice. “There are millions of babies and wee children all over the world, who have vanished.” 

Ryan nodded, as the now-familiar pain settled in his gut. He glanced at his watch. “Well, Monica, if we’re going to be on time for our flight, we’d better leave now. We can arrange your furniture properly when we come back.” 

“Yes,” Monica agreed. “We mustn’t be late for our first flight.” 

Setting the glass on the coffee table, Ryan strode toward the door. He paused to let Monica go ahead of him, then closed the door as he followed her. 

**_____________________________**

“I mean, I haven’t seen Ryan in months and so much has happened since then.” Christina leaned against the wall for one second, fidgeting; her shoes thudded softly on the carpet as she paced across the living room. “I mean, there’s the obvious stuff--the Rapture and all--but there’s also been personal changes. And now he’s working for that guy from Italy that neither of us trust and I’m honestly not sure if I really want to see him again, but I know he wants to see me again and it just won’t feel right ignoring my big brother when he’s gonna visit after so much has happened.” 

Christina twisted strands of hair around her index finger as she paused. “After all these months of unemployment, I know I should be grateful that he’s got a job once more--and it is a good job, to be sure. And he’s lucky to be able to get here, even though it isn’t really time off work or anything…” Her voice trailed off. “Gloria, what am I going to do?” She threw up her hands and shook her head. She tried, unsuccessfully, to stifle a small moan as she shook her head from side to side. 

Through Christina's worried babble, Gloria sat patiently on the couch, with one leg dangling over the other and her hands clasped. Now she tilted her head to the side with a silly smile. 

“What are you smiling about?” Christina asked, as annoyance welled up. Gloria tried unsuccessfully to hold back a giggle. After a couple of failed attempts, she quit trying and let her giggles go. Christina put her hands on her hips, glaring at the angel. “And what is so funny, Gloria?” 

“You!” Gloria gasped. “I think there’s a little factor in all this you’re forgetting.” With that, Gloria suppressed her giggles. “Christina, you should have seen yourself. You were pacing up and down so hard that if you'd kept that up any longer, Richard would have noticed a rut in the carpet when he got home.” She rubbed her fingers against the end table next to the couch, as an amused grin spread across her face. 

Christina let her hands drop at her sides and a small chuckle escaped her lips. Gloria continued, “You’re so worried about how you will handle this and how _Ryan_ will react to your newfound faith...you haven’t even stopped to consider that God is the One in control here.” 

Blushing, Christina sank down onto the couch next to Gloria. The mattress sagged and creaked as she turned to face her friend. “I don't know,” she said. “I guess I was just thinking too much about this from the human aspect. Old habits die hard.” Gloria nodded her understanding, then laid a hand on Christina’s shoulder. 

“You know, Christina, we should be praying, not worrying. We’ve been praying for Richard, and praying for you, and for any number of other things, but so far, I don't think we’ve prayed for your brother. He needs it just as much as anyone else. Why don’t we pray for him now?” Gloria squeezed Christina’s shoulder. 

Christina agreed, and the human and angel joined hands in prayer. 

**_____________________________**

Richard leaned back in his seat and sighed. The flight to Los Angeles had gone smoothly. Now he and Andrew were returning to New York. In less than an hour, they would land at Kennedy International Airport. The mattress sagged beneath him as he fidgeted. Sunlight flooded the cockpit, forcing him to wear a pair of sunglasses. 

“I can’t wait to get home,” he said. “Ryan’s flying his new boss to New York.” He rubbed his hands on the front of his shirt. 

“I know.” Andrew smiled. “Puccini’s supposed to make a speech to the American people.” Richard nodded. Andrew reclined against his chair in a relaxed position. A Styrofoam cup sat in front of him. Earlier, a flight attendant had brought him some lemonade. 

Several minutes passed in silence, as Richard drifted into thought and Andrew sipped his lemonade. Watching the fleecy clouds drift on past the windshield, Richard pondered the events of the last few days. What a roller-coaster he’d been on during that time! The initial loss of his first officer and of some of the passengers...the shock of learning that his baby daughter had also disappeared…Christina’s turning religious...and Ryan’s announcement, over the phone, that Puccini had hired him as his private pilot, after months of unemployment. And now, Puccini and Ryan were flying to New York. It would be a treat to see his best friend, if only for a short while. 

_At least,_ Richard thought, _I’ll get to see Ryan again. I’m not looking forward to seeing Christina!_ He frowned at the prospect. It distressed him that he now felt the same way about being with her as he had felt about being with Timothy. 

Out loud, he said, “I don’t know if I’ll go home tonight. I may just spend the night in a motel near the airport. I’m sure I’ll be quite busy during the next weeks.” 

Andrew frowned. “What about Christina? It’s hard on her, already, having lost her baby. It’s going to be even harder for her if you’re not there with her, at least some of the time.” 

“Hard on _her_?” Richard glared at his first officer. “What about _me_?” He clenched his fists so tightly his knuckles turned white. “Christina hasn’t been the same since she went on that stupid religious kick! Always praying--won’t smoke anymore--always reading that stupid Bible of hers! I’ve seen her do it. I won’t have it, Andrew--after all, I _am_ the man of the house! If she doesn’t get off this God stuff soon, I may just--!” 

He slammed his fist against the control panel, then leaned back to take a deep breath. Rage had made his heart race wildly; he could feel it pounding against his chest. Pain shot through his knuckles, making him wince. 

At last, he looked at Andrew, who sat gazing at him with a sorrowful expression on his face. “Look at it this way,” Andrew said gently. “Christina’s new faith is going to sustain her more than anything else could. With the loss of her daughter and the changes that are now taking place throughout the world, she’s in desperate need of something to keep her going.” He took a sip of lemonade. 

Richard grimaced. “That may be, but it’ll take more than fairy tales to do that. I’m a realist, Andrew--I don’t believe in escaping to fantasy to help you cope.” He removed his cap to rub his hair, from front to back, then placed the cap back on his head. 

Andrew swallowed. “Besides, with this new crime wave that’s sweeping the city, do you really think it would be safe to leave her there alone?” 

Richard winced. He had forgotten all about that! With a sigh, he shook his head. “No, it wouldn’t.” Chagrin filled his heart. “You’re right.” 

Shaking his head, he glanced at the clock. “We’ll be landing in about 15 minutes. I’d better tell the passengers.” He smiled. “At least, as soon as we land, Andrew, we’ll be heading right for the place where Puccini’s going to hold his press conference. Ryan will be there, and--” A teasing note entered Richard’s voice. “I’m sure your friend, Monica, will be, too.” Andrew chuckled. 

Richard reached above his head to turn on the intercom. For a moment, he paused before making his latest announcement to the passengers. 

**_____________________________**

Striding down the crowded entryway of the convention center, Ryan searched for his sister and brother-in-law. His shoes thudded on the thin brown carpet as he rushed into the hall and turned right. They'd promised to be there, and Ryan had no doubt they would keep that promise. He bumped against passer-bys as he made his way through the milling crowd clogging the corridor. “Excuse me,” he said, more than once. 

Once, Ryan reached up and almost unconsciously tugged on his tie. He hated wearing clothes like this--that was why he’d always wanted to be a private pilot and not work for an airline. Formal clothes were not his style. Ryan wanted to pull the tie off and throw his jacket across the hall. If only there’d been time to change into his uniform before he and Monica had left! But it had taken so long to arrange her furniture that it had been too close to time for departure when they had stopped to rest. 

Ryan fought back a chuckle when he thought of what Kristen Crossman would think of his yanking his tie off and tossing it aside. She’s probably stare at him in disbelief. Not that her staring at him would be a bad thing... 

“Ryan!” came the voice of his sister. “Hey, Ryan!” Ryan's mind came crashing back to reality as Christina’s voice startled him back to reality. Christina stood at the bend where the hallway turned. 

“Brownie!” he yelled. Without thinking, he used the nickname he’d given her when she’d chosen a chocolate-brown dress to wear on her first day of school, when she’d been five years old. As Christina rushed toward him, joy etched on her face, Ryan opened his arms and let his little sister practically crash against him, enveloping him in a huge bear hug. 

Ryan understood several things from their hug...things that he’d suspected, until this hug confirmed them. Christina was indeed devastated by the loss of Jessica, and her hug also seemed to indicate she was downright afraid of losing her brother, too. The way she clung to him reminded Ryan of when they’d been little, how she had clung to him after some bullies had teased her on the playground. Reaching up, Ryan gently ran his fingers through her hair, to comfort her, as she buried her face in his shoulder. If only he could console her for her loss of Jessica! 

When she pulled out of his arms, Ryan noticed something strange. “Where's Richard?” he asked, scanning the hall with eyebrows furrowed in puzzlement. 

Christina answered casually, as if unaffected by Richard's absence. “Oh, I think he’s on his way here from the airport.” She shrugged, patting her hair. 

Ryan bit his lower lip. Christina always picked Richard up at the airport after flights. This meant one of two things: either Christina had been too anxious to see Ryan to wait for Richard at the airport, or she and Richard were having marital trouble. As much as he wanted to believe it was the former, that just didn’t seem to connect in his mind. Christina had always been a very patient person, and she loved Richard too much to skip out on meeting him at the airport. Not to mention that unless Richard had gotten another ride here, it would mean he’d driven himself to the airport in the first place--another hint of trouble. Despite his suspicions, Ryan didn't ask. 

“Are you doing OK?” he asked, knowing the answer already. 

To his surprise, Christina made the “so-so” motion with her hand. “I'm still having trouble adjusting to the fact that Jessica's...gone...but at least…” Christina paused, biting her lip. 

Ryan wanted to ask what she was going to say, but he didn't get the chance before Richard appeared. “Hey, Ryan!” he called from several feet away. 

Ryan shook hands with, then briefly hugged, his brother-in-law. It only took a few moments to notice that Richard seemed to be almost ignoring Christina. Not only did he not hug and kiss her, as he normally did when first returning from a trip, he didn’t even look at her. Christina glanced at the floor, pain in her eyes, then, with a sigh, turned her attention to Ryan. She plastered a smile on her lips. 

As the conversation continued, Ryan felt tension build, and he didn't like it. Not one bit. 

**_____________________________**

“Monica! Andrew.” A delighted Gloria rushed toward the other angels as they entered the conference room. “Guess what--Christina has accepted the Lord!“ 

“I know. Tess told us.” Monica’s eyes shone, and Andrew beamed. 

Gloria smiled broadly. “She’s been growing in her new faith. She’s reading her Bible every day now, and she and I have been praying together for Richard and Ryan.” 

She leaned against the wall and paused to look around. Men and women wearing business suits--reporters and politicians--poured into the conference room and took seats in the rows of chairs facing the podium. Four men set up a pair of cameras and stood them at opposite sides of the room. Sunlight flooded the conference room through a window behind the podium. The guests spoke to one another in low voices. “These people are reporters and politicians,” Monica told Gloria, as she gazed at the assembled guests. 

Turning back to Monica and Andrew, Gloria wiggled. “And now--tell me about your experiences! I’m dying to know.” She tilted her head as she waited in anticipation. 

Monica turned to Andrew. “You go first.” 

Frowning, Andrew paused to collect his thoughts, then described his conversations with Richard, including Richard’s resistance toward the gospel. He leaned against the wall as he paused again. “He’s totally atheistic, to the point of being hostile toward God and toward anyone who believes in Him. He spent much of our time together criticizing and belittling Christina’s new faith. I’m afraid he’s going to be a tough nut to crack.” 

Folding his arms across his chest, he shook his head. Gloria frowned--she knew all too well what Andrew was talking about. 

Monica laid a hand on his upper arm. “That’s why God sent _you_ to him,” she said softly. “Because He knew you would be able to handle Richard.” Andrew nodded, smiling wanly. He knew Monica was right. 

“And now, tell me about Ryan.” Andrew scratched his arm. “Have you made any progress with him?” 

Monica shook her head. “I’m still getting to know him, but I’m confident he will come to the truth with no difficulty. He’s kindhearted and gentlemanly, and he’s not hardened toward God as Richard is.” She smiled at the thought. 

An instant later, she frowned. “I’m more worried about his boss--Antonio Puccini. I’ve tried and tried to understand him--to get a feel for his past, his heart. But something is blocking me out. I can’t reach him.” A chill ran through her, and she shivered. “I’ll be honest with you: Puccini frightened me when I was with him, and I don’t normally get frightened when I’m around humans. But there’s something about Antonio Puccini that gives me the shivers. I don’t know--” She paused, looking from Andrew to Gloria. “There’s something about him. Something evil. And dangerous.” 

“There is, Angel Girl.” Tess materialized next to Monica. “What you felt was a demonic spirit.” She clasped her hands in front of her waist, looking simultaneously stern and sad. “Antonio Puccini is the Antichrist!” 

_“What?”_ Monica and Andrew shouted in unison. Gloria gaped at Tess, who nodded. 

“Tess, are you sure?” Andrew stared at her. “God sent me to Mr. Puccini ten years ago, to try to turn him to faith in the Father.” 

“I know.” Tess sighed. “But you didn’t succeed.” Andrew bit his lower lip, as shame welled in his eyes. “Don’t blame yourself, Angel Boy.” Tess patted his arm. “Some people are so hardened that not even an angel can reach them. You learned that lesson, didn’t you, when God sent you to minister to John Wilkes Booth?” Andrew nodded agreement, evidently remembering his failed attempts to get through the man who had assassinated President Abraham Lincoln, over a century before. 

“Well, shouldn’t we get Ryan away from that man?” Gloria asked, still stunned. 

Tess shook her head. “No, Gloria. Not yet. Where Ryan is now working, is where God wants him for the moment. Ryan will be able to gain access to information where he is--information that’ll make it possible for him to help his sister and Richard.” 

Tess looked at Monica. “However, he needs to learn the truth--and soon. He needs to know what’s happened and what’s going to happen. And he needs to know who his boss is. It’ll be your job, Miss Wings, to inform him, and you have only a few weeks to do so.” Monica nodded her acquiescence, as she shifted her weight from one leg to the other. 

“Just a few weeks?” Gloria furrowed her eyebrows, puzzled. “But why?” She raised her hand to lean it against the wall and tilted her head. 

Andrew looked sad. “Because of the times this planet is now entering. Very dangerous, perilous times, both spiritually and in the flesh. In a few weeks, Gloria, Israel and Puccini will sign a seven-year covenant that will guarantee Israel’s safety and allow Israel to rebuild her temple. When that happens, the period foretold in the Bible--the day of the Lord, the time of Jacob’s trouble--will begin.” He folded his arms. 

“The Tribulation?” Gloria frowned. Tess nodded, as she reached up to scratch her neck. 

“It is the period of the Father’s judgment our Lord told his disciples about--the period just before the Lord Jesus returns to earth. It'll be so bad that unless He shortened it, no one would survive.” Tess shook her head. “Worse than that, the whole world will soon be in the grip of a Satanic delusion. The world will worship Puccini as God, and Israel will be deluded into thinking that Puccini is their Messiah. Later on during the Tribulation, Puccini and the False Prophet will force everyone to wear a mark.” 

“The Mark of the Beast,” Monica said softly; Tess nodded. “Puccini will be indwelt by Satan, and will demand worship.” The Irish-tongued angel shook her head, as deep sadness welled up in her eyes. 

“That’s right.” Tess pursed her lips. “The majority of the people will accept the mark--a computer implant--and when they do, they will give up all hope of Heaven. A minority of the people, though, will accept the true God, and most of them will die as martyrs.” 

“Who is the False Prophet?” Gloria pushed her glasses up her nose as she spoke. 

“The Israeli foreign minister, Elijah Dayan.” 

Gloria frowned. "Why the foreign minister and not the prime minister?" 

Andrew made a face. "Sometimes, Gloria, the real power comes not from the person in front, as Barak is, but someone in the background. Like Dayan. He, more than Barak, controls what takes place in Israel." 

Tess nodded agreement. "He's in the background now, but he's going to be very much in the forefront before long. With Puccini's help. And so will the leader of the new world religion." 

"Who's that?" Gloria cocked her head quizzically. 

"The new pope." Tess paused. “Listen to me, all three of you. Whether Ryan accepts the Lord or worships Puccini will depend on whether we succeed in our assignments now. It won’t take more than a few weeks for the great delusion to spread worldwide, you know.” She paused. "And Puccini, himself, will end up taking on so much of the duties of the Italian government that he'll make the prime minister essentially useless. He wants absolute power, not only of Italy and the European Union, but of the world." 

“What about the Dalys?” Gloria shivered. 

“That’s why the Father has sent us to them,” Andrew told her. “We can’t force them to accept the truth, but we can make it clear to them. Christina has already accepted the Lord, but Richard and Ryan have yet to.” 

“That’s right.” Tess nodded. “And that’s where you two come in. It’ll be Monica’s job to help Ryan, and it’ll be your job, Angel Boy, to help Richard. As you said, he’s a tough nut to crack, but the Father has had vast experience in cracking nuts.” She paused, frowning. “Unless you succeed, Richard may well succeed in driving his wife away from her newfound faith. We must not allow that to happen.” She pursed her lips in evident displeasure at the prospect. 

“What about Christina?” Gloria asked. 

“Your job is the same as it’s been,” Tess told her. “Stay with her, pray with her, encourage her. I’ll be on hand to serve as backup if I’m needed.” Gloria acquiesced. 

Monica and Andrew looked at each other and nodded. “I will do my best,” Monica said. 

“And so will I,” Andrew added. 

Tess nodded. “That is all you can do. The Father is sending you all the resources you’ll need to be successful.” 

At that moment, Antonio Puccini entered the conference room, followed by his prime minister and Elijah Dayan. The reporters, cameramen, and politicians rose to their feet and applauded them. Silently, Richard, Christina, and Ryan entered the room, standing next to the now-invisible angels against the back wall. 

**_____________________________**

Antonio Puccini’s shoes thudded on the carpet as he approached the podium. Behind him, Dayan leaned against the wall, clasping his hands in front of his waist; the prime minister stood next to him, exchanging glances with Dayan. Puccini placed his hands on the sides and leaned toward the microphone. 

“Ladies and gentleman,” he began, his mind furiously tumbling over the plans he’d made for this speech over the past few days. “I am aware it has not been a full week since the most tragic phenomenon to ever befall planet Earth took place.” So far, so good. 

Puccini wanted to make eye contact with every member of the press and anyone else there, but he realized that he wanted to influence a whole _world_ , not just a roomful of influential people. So instead, he looked from video camera to video camera, looking at each as if it was the eyes of his audience. 

“Scientists from all over the world have come together to search for an explanation to the disappearances that...” Puccini paused, then continued. “…devastated so many...” Puccini acted for a moment as if his voice broke, and quickly picked up again. “As I stated in my press conference a few days ago, a reasonable theory has surfaced amongst them. You are all certainly familiar with it by now. Many believe that these disappearances were a result of radiation, built up from decades of nuclear weapons testing.” 

Puccini leaned heavily against the podium. He rested his fingers on its smooth, polished surface. It was all he could do to keep up his facade of sadness when his plans were going so well. He shifted his focus toward one of the cameras and looked directly into the lens. “I, myself, concur with this theory. In fact, I have been worrying about something like this happening, for some time. Although I never predicted something this...tragic...I have believed, for quite a while, that the radiation building up in the atmosphere would be disastrous.” 

Puccini looked around, scanning the audience, ready to move on with the speech. “This tragedy has crippled some of the most powerful nations on earth--the United States included--by taking away their leaders. As tragic as this is, I believe it is a golden opportunity for the world to truly unite. Every country is looking for leadership; every country is in a great deal of pain.” 

For a long moment, he stood quietly, pondering what next to say. Silence filled the conference room--no one spoke or even fidgeted. When he spoke once more, his voice was reassuring. “I want you to know that, as president of the European Union, I will do whatever I can to help every nation who has been devastated by this catastrophe. All I ask, in return, is that you work with me. This is not a time for a division or politics--this is a time to work together! To unite, to become one. Then we can have peace. We can prosper. 

“We already have a world court, known as the International Criminal Court, which assumed power on July 1 of this year. With the help of this court, we will be able to bring war criminals--people who commit crimes against humanity--to justice. Now is the time to form a world government! I assure you that only in this way can we see to it that the nuclear testing can finally be abolished. Only by eliminating the threat of nuclear war can we also eliminate the threat of more catastrophes like the one we have just suffered.” 

He paused again. “In a few days, I will have a conference with leaders from all over the world, to finalize plans to institute this new government. When we have done so, I will inform you of what is going to happen, and how it will affect you.” 

He paused once more. “It is also a time of unity--not just of nations and peoples, but of religions, too. And if ever there were a time for religious unity, this is the time. My good friend, Elijah Dayan--” He paused to turn toward the Israeli foreign minister. “--is, even now, working with the new pope and the leaders of the other religions to bring about a new religion that will benefit everyone. He and the pope will announce the results as soon as he can.” Dayan smiled and nodded toward the cameras. All the while, Puccini ignored the prime minister. He didn't so much as glance at the man or make any comment about him. 

Antonio gazed at the assembled reporters and politicians. "Now--are there any questions?" 

As the first volley of questions began, Puccini repressed a smirk. _Now,_ he thought, _my plans will come to fruition!_ He glanced back at Dayan, as the last words of his speech echoed in his mind. _I'm glad I don't have to deal with the pope's predecessor, John Paul II--he would never have gone with our religious plans! He was too conservative. To fixated on worshipping the so-called God of the Bible._ He fought back a snarl as he pointed his index finger at one of the reporters. 

**_____________________________**

Tess led the way out of the conference room. Setting her jaw, she spoke grimly. “Fasten your seat belts, angel babies. The world is about to change, and the ride is going to be turbulent.” She crossed her arms as she spoke. 

Andrew shook his head. “We’ve got our work cut out for us.” He bit his lower lip, a troubled expression in his eyes. 

“Yes,” Tess agreed. “And only a short time to do it!” Next to her, Monica shivered, and Gloria exchanged troubled looks with the other three. All four angels gazed toward the ceiling to pray. Silently, Monica prayed that God would thwart any efforts on Puccini’s part to find out the purpose and object of her assignment.


	10. Chapter 9

Late that afternoon, Andrew stood half-behind, half-beside Christina Daly as he peeked around her shoulder to see the recipe book she was flipping through. She rested her left elbow on the kitchen shelf, her recipe book lying open before her, her shadow forming a contrast to the sunlight flooding the kitchen through the open window. 

Resisting an impulse to fidget, Andrew wondered why he’d offered to help Christina in the kitchen. Christina was Gloria's assignment...but at the same time he couldn't say much for Gloria’s cooking skills, and it was not as if Christina needed an angel to help her cook. 

_Face it, Andrew,_ he thought, almost against his will, _when a woman says she needs help, you just can’t say no._ Andrew tried not to chuckle. It was true, he’d never been able to say no when anyone--let alone a woman--asked for help. Not only that, but he welcomed the chance to do something he enjoyed, something that he hadn’t been able to do for weeks and probably wouldn’t get to do for the next seven years, at least. 

“Hmmm,” Christina said, without turning around. “How about Mushroom Surprise?” She patted her hair as she spoke. 

Rising to his toes, Andrew glanced over her shoulder and read the recipe. “Sounds more like a vegetarian casserole,” he commented. He knew he sounded irritable...and if the truth were known, he was. His life, and the lives of every angel and human being on this planet, had been thrown into turmoil over the past week, and now he knew that his assignment’s best friend was working for the Antichrist. Not good! Oh, sure, Ryan was part of God’s plan...but he had no idea where Ryan’s mind landed on the issue of God yet, and he didn’t like taking that risk. With effort, Andrew forced his mind back to the task at hand, choosing a recipe and cooking it. 

“What’s wrong with that?” Christina asked. 

Andrew shrugged. “Nothing. It just doesn’t sound like much of a surprise, much less a mushroom surprise.” 

Christina looked at Andrew, mirth in her eyes. “What, you've had it before?” Andrew shook his head, and Christina's eyes twinkled. “Then the surprise for you will be the taste.” 

Andrew couldn't argue that point. Instead, he walked over to the Dalys’ pantry and removed a unopened bag of noodles. “Well,” he said. “Let's get started.” 

**____________________________**

Tess looked around the dinner table. Although, she was sure that, if any of the three humans were asked about it, they would describe the silence as “comfortable silence,” Tess could feel the tension so thickly in the room it could be cut with a knife. The fork clinked as she laid it down on her dinner plate, to pick up a glass of lemonade that stood to the left of her plate. 

As she took a sip, Tess glanced from Richard, to Christina, and back again repeatedly, as a frown furrowed her eyebrows. She wanted to say something, to break the silence...but none of the humans in the room was her assignment, and she felt slightly out of place. Why she had been told to be here tonight was beyond her...but when the Father gives you an order, you don't argue. 

Picking up her fork, Tess inserted it into the steaming serving of casserole and inserted a bite into her mouth. Christina had called it “Mushroom Surprise,” and now Tess understood the title. It certainly had lots of mushrooms...and to her surprise, it actually tasted good. At that point, she thought of a way to break the silence. “This is good.” Smiling, Tess wiped her lips. 

Andrew and Christina spoke at exactly the same moment: “Thank you.” The unintentional use of the same words coming from two different places at the same time caused chuckles around the table. Andrew and Christina laughed with the others. 

“Seriously, Brownie, this _is_ good,” Ryan complemented his sister. 

“Brownie?” Gloria gazed at Christina as a quizzical expression creased her face. 

Christina and Ryan exchanged amused glances, and Christina explained. “The day I started kindergarten, I insisted on picking out my own clothes. I ended up wearing a chocolate-brown dress, and he called me Brownie in jest. It just kind of...stuck.” 

The uneasy silence fell again. Across the table, Richard ignored his wife, who bit her lower lip as she glanced at him, then looked away. Instead, he divided his time between chatting with Ryan and Andrew, and reading a newspaper. Tess and Monica exchanged worried looks. Ryan shook his head, biting his lower lip. Richard, at one point, leaned back in his chair and rubbed his hair, to smooth it. 

Twenty minutes after the meal started, Christina served each person a slice of her apple pie. Tess smiled as the sweet-spicy scent reached her nostrils. Before she had a chance to take her first bite, Richard cleared his throat and shoved the newspaper away from him. 

“It says here that Puccini’s meeting with the world leaders went well.” Richard wiped his mouth as he spoke. “Even our nation’s agreed to join the new world system. They’re going to have a series of meetings to finalize the details over the next few weeks.” He paused. “Not all the nations of the world have agreed to join it yet, but Puccini’s confident he can persuade them, eventually.” He paused. “And it seems Dayan’s meeting with the pope and the other religious leaders went well, too.” 

Andrew nodded. “This will result in a world government and a world religion.” He paused. "And it will not take long to set up either." 

Ryan nodded agreement. “We already have an International Criminal Court, which was ratified back in April and took effect in June. So it was bound to happen, sooner or later.” He shook his head. His eyebrows furrowed as he spoke. “I just wish Pope John Paul II was still alive--he never would have gone for this occultic hocus-pocus the new pope is talking about. I’ll be honest--I have a very bad feeling about this. All of it.” 

“Why?” Christina inquired. 

Ryan smiled wryly. “You remember the old axiom, Christina: ‘Power corrupts, and absolute power corrupts absolutely.’” Christina nodded agreement. “Not only are we about to have a world government, one man--Puccini--is going to be in absolute charge of it. He's gone so far as to basically shove his own prime minister to the side. The results won’t be good, I’m afraid. And I--well, Christina, let’s just say I have a very bad feeling about this new religion the pope's trying to create with Dayan's help. Dayan’s a Jew, for Pete’s sake--you’d think he’d be more loyal to the God of his people! Anyway, how could a Jew and a Catholic ever work together on such a project?” 

Christina winced, as she looked at Gloria. Gloria nodded agreement, deep sadness etched on her face. "Well, the current pope's not exactly a conservative Catholic," she ventured to say. 

Smiling wryly, Ryan nodded agreement. "He's sure not." 

Richard glared at them, then looked away. Pressing her fingers against the table’s smooth surface, Tess gazed at the ceiling. Silently, she counted to ten and prayed for patience. 

“No, he not. And yes, it _is_ happening,” Tess said, “and it’s going to get a lot worse before it gets better. So if there’s a time to seek God, now’s the time.” 

Richard jumped to his feet. “Don’t you _ever_ mention that again--not in my house!” Fury turned his face beet-red as he glowered at the gruff supervisor angel. Tess just sat quietly, staring at him until he looked away, fidgeting. 

“Sorry,” Richard muttered. “By now, you all know how I feel about that kind of thing.” He looked at his wife bitterly as he spoke. 

Andrew sighed. “Yes, Richard, we do.” An edge crept into his voice as he spoke. Pain filled Christina’s eyes, but she did not say anything. She just looked down at her plate. 

Monica gazed beseechingly at Richard. “Please don’t be hard on your wife,” she said softly. “What she’s doing is going to be more beneficial to her mental health in the coming years than anything else she could have done.” Pressing his lips into a tight line, Richard did not respond. 

Ryan gazed at his sister with a questioning expression. “I’ll tell you later,” Christina said in a low voice. Out loud, she asked, “Ryan, would you take me to the grocery store before you leave? Our kitchen’s running low.” 

“I sure will.” Ryan kissed her temple, and she smiled her thanks. 

“I’m afraid Richard won’t let me leave the house at present.” Christina bit her lip. “What with the outbreak in crime all over the place, he’s afraid I’ll be assaulted if I go anywhere alone.” 

“He has a point,” Ryan said. “I know it’s hard to stay home, but trust me, it’ll be a whole lot safer.” 

Christina nodded, while sorrow shadowed her face. “I miss my trips to Ground Zero.” She jabbed a fork into her slice of pie. “I haven’t paid a single visit there since all this started.” 

“I know.” Gloria nodded as a look of sympathy creased her face. “Someone tried to break in last night, but the new burglar alarm Richard had installed scared him off. This is the second time in less in a week that’s happened. It’s not safe to go out just now, Christina.” 

“I know.” Sighing, Christina took a bite. 

Tess pursed her own lips. While she didn’t blame him for wanting to protect Christina, listening to Richard rant about his wife’s faith and watching him ignore her had grated on her nerves, to the point where she’d repeatedly had to ask God to give her patience with him. Now she glanced once more at the ceiling as she once more sent a silent prayer toward Heaven. _Father, give me patience with that man!_ Gritting her teeth, she dug her fork into the slice of sweet-spicy apple pie that lay on her plate. 

**____________________________**

A few days later, Kristen Crossman let out a long sigh as she stretched out on the carpeted floor. Taking a deep breath, she pressed the backs of her hands against the soft tufts of carpet, mashing them against the floor, then relaxed them. Her life had been a mess these past few weeks, her job being the only stability of recent days. Even that seemed slightly uncertain now, what with Puccini’s ideas that might thrust him into being the most powerful man in the world. For all she knew, she was only good enough for a president, not for a...well for a...a king of the world as Puccini might soon be. 

Kristen's dark hair fell over her face. She kicked her leg up and down. Although Puccini hadn’t mentioned himself for the position of the first world leader, he certainly seemed to have described himself while describing the leader. A strong, visionary leader who truly cared about peace. He also seemed to be putting this into action as though he intended to take over when he was through setting it up. And it appeared that Elijah Dayan, although an Israeli Jew and a member of his government, was going to head this new world religion he was bent on creating. Or was it the pope who was going to be its head? "I think it's the pope," she muttered. 

_Do I really want to be part of it?_ she silently asked herself. _The way Dayan and the pope describe it, it sounds like so much hocus-pocus! Do I really want to have my palm read, use crystal balls, read tarot cards, go for that stupid astrology stuff? I'm surprised that a pope would!_ She bit her lower lip. _And how’s it going to feel to be part of a world government? To have one man making laws for the whole world! To have one worldwide currency--the Euro! I overheard Mr. Puccini talking about that the other day. To live in my country and know that it’s no longer--my country._

Suddenly, her doorbell jangled. Kristen’s stomach lurched into her throat. Who could that be? She glanced at her watch. _Ryan should be back from New York by now,_ she thought. Where had that thought come from? She distantly worked with him, and he happened to have the apartment directly above hers. So what? Why did she suddenly think of him when her doorbell rang? 

Kristen jumped up and walked quickly to her door. When she opened it, her heart leaped into her throat. Ryan Whittaker was standing there! 

**____________________________**

Ryan looked at Kristen, and suddenly, everything he’d wanted to say flew out of his brain. He’d never seen her looking like this before. Her dark hair hung down around her face and past her shoulders. She was wearing a pair of dark blue jeans and a purple sweater with a butterfly on the front. And he’d thought she’d looked good at work! 

It took Ryan a moment to bring his mind back to earth. "Uh..." he said. He felt insanely stupid. Why had he come here? To tell her he was back? She’d probably already heard about Puccini's return on the news. And why would she care he was back anyway? Funny, but saying, “Just wanted you to know I was back,” had sounded so good in his mind a moment ago...now it sounded like the stupidest sentence on earth. But he had to say something. It was either that or stand here like an idiot. 

“Uh...hi,” he finally squeaked. 

“Hi.” Kristen leaned against the doorframe, a questioning expression creasing her face. 

Ryan had never felt like more of a lunkhead. He’d been lost in a dream world on his way down, and now he’d come crashing back to reality. Oh...why hadn’t he, in all his lunkheadedness, thought to bring her something? Flowers, candy, a leftover bowl of Mushroom Surprise, anything! Where was this conversation going to go from here? 

**____________________________**

Kristen was confused. Why had he visited her? Suddenly, she realized that just standing there staring at this co-worker, appealing as that was, was totally unlike herself. Still, Kristen stared at him for a long moment, trying to figure out how to follow up her initial greeting without sounding rude. 

He had obviously just gotten back--he was still wearing his pilot’s uniform, minus the tie. Kristen tried to come up with something decent to say...but what could she say? Finally, something came to her. Pilot's uniform, duh! Ask how his flight was! 

“How was your flight?” she asked. 

“Fine, thanks.” Ryan thrust his hands into his pockets and smiled. 

Great, he came to visit her, then killed all potential for a conversation by answering her first question with two words. She didn’t know whether to be mad at him for his lack of preparation, or flattered at his choosing to visit her first out of all the co-workers with whom he worked more closely than with her. Finally, she decided to do neither until she knew what was up. Finally, she got right to the point. 

“What are you doing here?” 

**____________________________**

Kristen's words hit Ryan like a bucket of cold water. She didn’t want him here! 

Of course she didn’t want him here! What right did he have to be here? Why on earth would he even think he'd be welcome? He could be such a lunkhead at times! 

“Uh...I...uh...I just wanted to say hi,” he finally responded, before starting to turn around to leave...then suddenly, he remembered how she’d said it. 

“What are you doing here?” Her words had held more curiosity than anything. Maybe it wasn’t a demand to go away. Still, going away was a more comfortable option than standing here in the awkward silence. He thought about walking away anyway and seeing how she would react. Instead, he finally made his own attempt at conversation. 

“Umm, do you like coffee?” He leaned his hand against the wall above his head, as he spoke. Instantly, he felt foolish. 

_Do you like coffee?!_ What kind of question was that? He’d been spending too much time around Monica! 

**____________________________**

“Do you like coffee?” Kristen choked back an irresistible urge to laugh. That had to be the most ridiculous pick-up line she’d heard in her life! So _that_ was what Ryan was doing here! 

Kristen smiled at him. Her head was spinning. Those four words spoke volumes to Kristen. Ryan Whittaker, no doubt the best-looking man on Puccini’s staff, was interested in her! That thought alone made her legs turn to Jell-O. She did her best to make her voice sound calm. 

“As a matter of fact, I do. And I have a pot of coffee in my kitchen. Care for a cup?” 

**____________________________**

Ryan was surprised at her sudden change of attitude. She'd gone from completely confused to...to what? Flirtatious? That didn't make sense, he'd just asked if she liked coffee. Still, he couldn't keep from nodding. 

“Well, then,” Kristen said. “Come on in and I'll make you a cup.” She backed away from the doorway. 

Ryan followed her in. He glanced around. Her apartment was well-furnished and homey. Turning from the front door into the living room placed him directly between a bookshelf and a recliner. To the left stood a small white couch, and in front of the couch was a coffee table. A TV set stood at the other end of the room. Ryan chuckled at the mental image of himself walking into this living room at night in the dark and tripping over the coffee table. 

Her slippers made soft thuds in the carpet as Kristen circled the edge of the living room and opened the door to the dining room. The dining room was small, and Ryan was grateful he wasn't claustrophobic. How could an apartment directly below his be so different from his? The answer came to him quickly. His apartment was designed the same...but the huge walnut-colored table surrounded by three matching chairs seemed to eat up the entire room. 

Before he could even step halfway across, Kristen had already entered the kitchen. “How do you like your coffee?” she called. 

Ryan thought about following her through the open doorway, but he suddenly remembered how small the two counters made the kitchen in his apartment and decided against it. Feeling a blush spread across his cheeks at the thought of being in that close proximity to her. Instead, he just said loudly, “Four and a half teaspoons of sugar and a teaspoon of cream!” He scratched his cheek, then leaned against the paneled wall to wait. 

**____________________________**

A few minutes later, Kristen re-entered the living room with two steaming cups of coffee. She had heated them in the microwave oven before bringing them out. “Come on,” she said. “We’ll have our coffee right here.” She nodded toward the couch. “Have a seat.” 

Ryan and Kristen reclined on the couch behind the coffee table. Kristen looked at Ryan as, leaning forward, he sipped his coffee. His eyes widened in surprise, and finished drinking his sip, then opened his mouth with a grimace. 

“Umm,” he said. “Were the four spoonfuls heaping spoonfuls?” 

Kristen bit her lip. Oh, no! There wasn't enough sugar in it for him! She couldn't believe she’d messed up so fast. 

To her surprise, Ryan laughed at the look on her face. “It's OK,” he said. “I just like my coffee sweeter.” Nodding, Kristen took Ryan’s cup back to the kitchen to add some more sugar. A burning desire to please him had risen in her. 

When Kristen returned with his coffee, he took another sip, then smiled. “Thank you,” he said. “This is good.” Relief flooded Kristen’s heart. The mattress sagged and creaked underneath her as she shifted position to face him. 

With that, they settled into another silence, this one more comfortable. Kristen watched Ryan as he relaxed on the other side of the couch, crossing one leg over the other. The white couch was small, not much larger than a love seat. As Ryan took frequent sips of his coffee, Kristen silently admired his appearance...he was a good-looking man. He looked quite strong, as if he were accustomed to hard work. Kristen briefly had the mental image of her cuddling up against him watching a movie. She quickly shook the image and continued to look at him over her coffee cup. It wasn't just his appearance that attracted her to him. It was his obvious intelligence and his gentlemanly ways. 

Kristen's mind started to wander again. Somehow, she needed to get their conversation going, fast! 

“So...what did you think of Puccini’s speech?” she finally said. There, she’d thought of a topic for conversation, and it was a fairly safe one. What people all over the world were discussing right now. 

**____________________________**

Ryan leaned back against the couch. Part of him wanted to share with her what he really thought, but another part of him advised caution. He still remember Puccini’s unspoken threat, a few days before, and he feared the consequences of admitting to anyone, let alone one of Puccini’s employees, that he had doubts about the man. 

Guilt welled up in Ryan's heart. Why didn’t he trust Kristen enough to tell her how he really felt? _And why is it important to me, all of a sudden, that I even trust Kristen?_ he wondered. _I just met her a few days ago! I don’t even know her that well yet, so how can I trust her?_ He sat up straight as he tried to think of the best way to answer her question. 

“He’s a good speechmaker,” he finally said. “I don't know about this scientific theory he described, but he certainly did a persuasive job of making a case for a global government and a new worldwide religion.” He took another sip. The coffee felt cooler, now, than it did when Kristen had first brought it to him. 

“Yes, he did,” Kristen agreed. 

Silence settled over the room, this one uncomfortable, but in a different way from the first. Their first lapses of silence were awkward, and--now that Ryan looked back on it--downright funny, then there was the comfortable silence that had prevailed for several moments as they just sat looking at each other. But now, the silence was of someone keeping a secret from someone. It irritated Ryan that he couldn’t share with her...but the question kept coming back to him. Why did he want to? 

**____________________________**

Kristen suppressed a frown as irritation welled up in her. Ryan was keeping a secret from her. Kristen wasn’t sure how she knew it, she just knew. It bothered her. She didn’t know why, after all, it wasn’t as if they had any “no secrets” commitment or anything. It just bothered her for some, unknown reason. Whatever the secret was, it had to do with Puccini. But what? 

Kristen knew if she let herself dwell on it, she’d just get angry and end up throwing him out of the apartment. She had no right to ask him what he was hiding, so she decided to change the subject. She thought for several minutes, looking into Ryan's deep blue eyes, eyes that seemed to hold a troubling secret somewhere deep inside. Kristen pushed all thoughts of Ryan's secret out of her head and asked a question. 

“So...what do you want to talk about?” 

**____________________________**

Ryan let himself relax now that the subject of Puccini had passed. Now it was his turn to come up with a conversation topic. Ryan searched the living room for a possible subject of discussion. "Well, I just finished unpacking my things," he finally said. "I had to go back to New York to empty out my apartment." He paused. "A chance to kill two birds with one stone--transport Puccini to his meeting with the reporters, and take care of personal business." Kristen nodded. 

Ryan's eyes landed on a paperback book resting on her coffee table. He couldn't see the whole title but he saw the picture, and one word: “Zorro.” Ryan was familiar with the legend of Zorro... in fact he’d watched the New World Zorro series that had aired on the Family Channel back in the early 90’s. And to think that the sight of that book, resting on Kristen’s coffee table, would spark a new topic to discuss. 

_Coffee table._ The two words echoed in Ryan's mind. Oh! How could he have forgotten? He had promised Monica to help her with her furniture! He felt like a complete idiot. Wincing, Ryan smacked himself on the forehead. The cup landed with a clink as he set it on the coffee table. 

**____________________________**

“What?” Kristen asked. “What's wrong?” Apprehension welled up within her. 

Kristen had seen Ryan look over the coffee table, then roll his eyes, then, with a wince, lean back and smack himself on the head. Now she was concerned as to why. 

“I just remembered.” Ryan shook his head. “I promised Monica I’d help her arrange her furniture when we got back from New York.” 

Kristen would later tell herself that she was simply curious...but in truth, she felt a stab of jealousy at the mention of “Monica.” She leaned forward, fixing her gaze on Ryan. “Who’s Monica?” She almost hadn’t wanted to ask, she was afraid of the answer. 

“Monica Welleye,” Ryan said. “She's Puccini’s newest flight attendant, and her apartment’s right next to mine. The movers didn’t do the best of jobs on her apartment and I promised to help her out.” 

Without thinking, Kristen suddenly found herself asking, “Need an extra pair of hands?” 

Ryan grinned. “If that’s an offer to help, I’ll take it. As long as Monica doesn’t have a problem with it.” 

**____________________________**

Richard gazed into the empty crib. The small blanket and the pillow were arranged as they always had been, and Jessica's sleeper still lay rumpled under the blanket. Her rattler lay next to it. Neither he or Christina had the heart to take it out. The lamp emitted a soft light throughout the bedroom. 

Clutching the smooth bars of the crib, Richard let out a long, shaky breath. He was fighting to control his tears. He wouldn’t cry, he couldn’t cry! Men didn’t cry. Still, at that moment, he felt an irresistible urge to do so, unmanly as he thought it to be. His heart felt as empty as Jessica's crib. 

“My Jessica,” he mumbled. “My beautiful little Jessica! Why’d you have to disappear?” 

He glanced down at the picture he’d been carrying since supper. Nicole’s photo. With a sigh, he stuffed it into his jeans pocket for the umpteenth time. If he wasn’t careful, the old grief would overwhelm him again, and the combination of old grief and new would be more than he could endure. 

Suddenly, he heard a voice from his and Christina's room. Christina was praying...again. Dropping his hands to his sides, Richard rolled his eyes. He was going to go bonkers if that woman didn’t come to her senses soon! He pursed his lips as he glared at the wall separating their room from Jessica’s. 

He was prepared to ignore her as he had been doing for days. But something she said caught his ear. "Please, God, protect Ryan. He's in over his head this time, and he has no idea of the amount of danger he's in." 

Richard felt a chill run up and down his spine. Danger? Ryan was in danger? No, correction, Christina _thought_ Ryan was in danger. Christina had been a bit of a flake lately, and who knew what her impression of danger was? Still, he was curious as to why--maybe she'd go into more detail. He walked around the crib and leaned against the wall, pressing his ear against it. 

“And Father,” Christina said, “one more thing. Open Richard’s eyes; he needs You so badly...and he isn't even aware of it.” 

Rage surged in Richard’s heart. He didn’t need God! There was no God! Richard made no effort to control his temper, as he rushed out of the room and hurled open the door to his and Christina’s so hard, it banged against the wall. “Shut up!” he yelled. 

A startled Christina whirled to gape at him from her position kneeling on the floor against the bed. Richard curled his hands into tight balls as he glared fiercely at her. “Shut up this instant, Christina! You are really stupid! Do you really think someone is listing? Don't you know by now that there is no God? Now knock off that useless, stupid praying, and get up and do something useful for once!” He banged his fist on the pine bureau and spat into an empty ashtray. Pain shot through his knuckles. 

Christina’s face turned red, and she twitched her lower lip--a sure sign of anger, Richard knew from experience. Taking a deep breath, she slowly rose to her feet and approached to him. Her stride was calm, but her eyes flashed with irritation...and downright anger. One by one, she began to counter everything he had just said to her, her voice calm, but stretching with frustration. Her eyes flashed and her hands shook. 

“I will _not_ shut up, and I am not stupid.” She took a deep breath. “I really _know_ there is Someone listening to me when I pray. I do not know there is no God and I will never believe that, and I am not going to stop praying because praying _is_ useful, Richard!” 

Richard was stunned for a moment. How had she done that? How exactly had she done that? How could she have countered everything he said without even really trying? He couldn’t let her do that! 

Christina continued. “Now will you excuse me, so I can get back to it?” On those words, the anger flashing in her eyes through into her voice. 

“No.” Richard clenched his fists so tightly his knuckles turned white. “I will _not_ have my wife telling Someone Who doesn’t even exist that I need Him!” 

“You won't have it?” Christina shot back. “ _You_ won't have it? Well, I'll tell you what _I_ won't have. I won't have my husband getting in my face every time I try to talk to the Creator of the Universe.” 

“People have been locked in insane asylums for less ridiculous statements than that, Christina! The ‘Creator of the Universe,’ indeed! Excuse me? One Person creating the entire Universe? Where is your mind?” He clutched his throbbing hand and glared at her fiercely. 

“Not a Person, Richard! God!” 

“God, God, _God_! With you, it’s always God! Will you ever shut up and get out of my face?” Richard’s voice rose to a shout. His heart pounded wildly in his chest. Christina took a step forward, pressing her lips into a tight line of rage. 

“I wasn’t in your face, Richard. I’ve never been in your face with this! You tell me to back off of you, I back off. But you won’t stop me from praying, or reading my Bible!” 

Richard wanted to slap her. How could she be so...so...irritating? How could she even believe in a God who would--! Richard started to raise his arm to hit her...then came crashing back to reality. _What I am doing?!_

Sure, he was angry...sure, Christina was on him 24 hours a day about God. But still, that was no reason to turn violent. Dropping his hands to his sides, Richard turned on his heel and stalked through the door, slamming it behind him for good measure. He needed to run some cold water over his throbbing hand. _Serves me right for banging it so hard,_ he thought ruefully. _I’d love to bang it against that stubborn head of hers!_ He paused to glare at the closed bedroom door as he opened the bathroom door. _That’ll teach her to believe in a nonexistent God who lets young girls die! Like my sister Nicole!_

**____________________________**

Kristen’s shoes made soft thuds on the carpeted stairs. As she followed Ryan, she began to wonder if she was stupid or something. Here she was, on her way to help some stranger with some insane and time-consuming project, and all because she was jealous that a guy who had only shown the slightest interest in her today was going to help another woman. What had happened to her common sense? Twisting her watch around her wrist, she shook her head. 

_I really have no reason to be jealous,_ she thought. If Ryan did have a relationship with this Monica lady, he was certainly within his rights. And if he really did want a relationship with her too...he’d be rather more nervous about the two women meeting. Besides, Ryan had never seemed the type to want two women at once. 

_Never seemed the type?_ Her own thoughts came back at her mind. _You've known him for less than a week, and you already think you know what type of guy he is? Get real!_

Kristen shook her head. It was time to put all thoughts of romance aside. She was here to help Monica, and she was going to do just that! As Ryan paused on the landing, she stepped up next to him. 

**____________________________**

Ryan glanced at Kristen. Walking next to her made him want to reach over and hold her hand. Still, he was already being far too forward. Hand-holding was definitely out. He should ask Kristen out. Ryan shook his head to dismiss the thought. Dating? So soon after everyone on the face of the earth had lost someone? Where was his mind?! 

As the two approached Monica’s apartment, Ryan briefly wondered why Kristen had offered to help Monica. He’d love to think it was because she wanted to spend more time with him...but somehow that just didn't seem right. Suddenly, he realized he needed to put all romantic thoughts aside for the time being. He was supposed to be helping Monica with her furniture, and he’d certainly need the use of all his mind to explain the extra help to Monica. 

Despite his resolve, as he and Kristen passed Ryan’s door and walked over to Monica’s, some sensible, annoying part of his mind whispered, _Lots of luck,_ very sarcastically. Ryan rang the doorbell, then paused again, to clear his throat. Next to him, Kristen bit her lip and glanced at her shoes. 

**____________________________**

Monica jumped through the maze of furniture cluttering her living room, nearly knocking over the recliner that lay on its side. When she opened the door, there stood Ryan in his pilot’s uniform, and a young woman Monica wasn’t sure she recognized. 

“Ryan,” she greeted. “I thought you were going to your place to change clothes.” Monica glanced at the young woman with Ryan, and suspected she might be the cause of Ryan's absence of mind...but she wasn’t sure. 

**____________________________**

Ryan's face flushed a bright red. He couldn’t believe it! How could he have forgotten to change his clothes? Duh, he knew very well and good why he had forgotten. The idea of visiting Kristen had just been too good to resist, and he’d gone straight to Kristen’s instead of to his own place. His face turned red as he glanced down at his uniform. 

“Uhh...” was all he could say for a moment, his face turning even redder. Then, finally, he said, “I’ll be right back. Excuse me.” With that, he darted toward his door. All the way, he mentally kicked himself for his massive error. 

**____________________________**

Kristen watched as Ryan scurried through his front door. So he’d skipped out on a promise to Monica to visit her, had he? Kristen wasn’t sure whether to be angry because he could forget something important so easily, or flattered that she meant so much to him. 

All confusion was replaced with instant awkwardness when she realized that she was still standing in Monica’s open doorway...and that Monica didn't know her from Adam! Er...didn't know her from Eve. 

“Uh...hi,” Kristen greeted weakly. 

“Hi,” Monica said. Her tone convinced Kristen that the next words would be, "Who are you, and what are you doing at my apartment?" Nervousness sent Kristen into full-babble, twisting her watch again as she spoke. 

“I'm Kristen Crossman, a friend of Ryan’s, and he came and visited me today, then he remembered that he promised to help you with your furniture and had to leave in a hurry, but for some reason I decided to offer to help too, but now I know that was kind of stupid since you don't know me at all--well, you might’ve seen me before. I’m Antonio Puccini’s secretary and since you’re living in this complex, I can only assume you work for him too, but I just thought you and Ryan might need an extra hand and...” 

“Kristen, Kristen, Kristen!” Monica laughed softly. Kristen quieted. “Drop a punctuation mark in somewhere, please.” 

Monica’s amused smile relaxed Kristen. Apparently, Monica was not offended at Kristen’s appearance at her door. Relief flooded Kristen’s heart as she smiled back. 

**____________________________**

Monica smiled at the completely nervous expression on Kristen's face. Few people were ever nervous around her. Kristen’s babble had explained a lot, but Monica had known that she would just keep going for several minutes if she wasn’t stopped. 

“Sorry,” Kristen mumbled. 

Monica's smile widened. From the few moments of conversation, she knew already that Kristen was a nice young woman. “It's all right.” Monica smiled warmly. “Would you like to come in?” She stepped back as she spoke. 

Kristen nodded, and Monica turned around, motioning for Kristen to follow her. She knew what Kristen’s reaction to the state of her apartment would be. The same as hers had been--laughter. Oh, well, at least she had managed to set the refrigerator up in the kitchen. And she had set up the coffee pot, hoping to have a cup when she finished the job. She had purchased several versions of coffee when she moved in, from plain coffee to _mocha-latté_. 

**____________________________**

As Kristen entered the apartment, she realized in an instant why the new flight attendant needed help. Chairs, couches, dining table and chairs, bookcases--even a TV set and a bed--were scattered all over the living room. 

Kristen tried to stifle a laugh, but a humorous look from Monica made her completely lose it. She leaned against the wall and burst into laughter. Monica joined her. 

As the two laughed together, Kristen suddenly remembered why she had been so nervous. Monica was a beautiful woman, and rather nice too. Furthermore, she lived right next to Ryan, and that gave her more ready access to him than Kristen had. For a moment, Kristen felt another peg of jealousy, but dismissed it. She herself had no real relationship with Ryan, so if Ryan and Monica had something going then it was Monica who had the right to be jealous of her, not the other way around. 

Finally, Kristen’s laughter subsided enough to permit her to rest her elbow on the TV set. Monica, too, lapsed into silence, propping her fingers together in front of her waist. Neither spoke. 

After a long, uncomfortable moment, Kristen got to the point with her trademark bluntness. "Monica, are you and Ryan an item?” 

**____________________________**

To say that Monica was surprised at the question would be putting it mildly. She’d been asked that question about herself and Andrew repeatedly. But the very idea...no way. She was an angel...Ryan was her assignment. Even if she were to think of him that way--which she didn’t--it would be impossible. 

“No,” she said quickly--too quickly, she realized. “No,” she repeated. “We're just friends, nothing more.” Kristen seemed to visibly relax, and Monica's curiosity was piqued. “Why?” 

Kristen took a deep breath, and began to answer. “Because...uh, well, because I was sort of hoping for a relationship with him...I know it sounds crazy but…” She bit her lower lip. Dare she go on? 

**____________________________**

Ryan swung his door shut and slowly approached Monica’s still half-open door, wearing a sweater over an old pair of blue jeans and a cotton shirt. He still couldn’t believe his mistake. How could he have been so...so...idiotic?! Now Kristen was bound to discover how he felt about her. The question was, was that such a bad thing? 

As he approached the door he heard Kristen say, “I know it sounds crazy but I really like him. Not only is he the cutest guy on Puccini's staff, but he's a real gentleman. He's got this--I don't know--deer-caught-in-the-headlights look. He has the weakest pick-up lines…” 

Ryan's face flushed. She was talking about him, he knew it. Ryan’s entire world was spinning; he wanted to hear more, but he knew eavesdropping was wrong. Still...he could afford to listen for a couple more seconds. Leaning his arm on the wall above his head, he craned his head to listen carefully. 

“And you like him,” Monica finished. Ryan couldn't see inside, but when he heard Monica say, “I thought so,” he knew that Kristen had nodded. His heart was pounding so hard he was convinced they could hear it. Hand shaking, Ryan knocked timidly on the half-open door. 

**____________________________**

Kristen was already blushing, but hearing Ryan’s knock made her feel as if her cheeks were flaming a deeper red. She hoped that he hadn’t heard that. If he had heard what she’d just told Monica...she didn't know what she’d do. Probably die of embarrassment. 

“Hi,” she squeaked. 

Kristen looked Ryan over. He had changed into a cream-colored sweater over a gray cotton button-up shirt, as well as a pair of blue jeans and white sneakers. As he stood framing the doorway, resting his hands in his jeans pockets, Kristen could barely breathe, so she gave Monica a “see what I mean?” look. 

Monica glanced back and forth between the two. “Well,” she said. “Let's get to work, shall we?” 

**____________________________**

Monica stood on one side of the couch, Ryan on the other. “So, we're starting with this monster, are we?” Ryan made a face. Monica nodded, her eyes twinkling. 

“Monster?” A quizzical expression creased Kristen’s face. 

“There are weights in that thing,” Ryan said seriously. “I’d bet my li...uh, last penny on that.” He smiled wryly. 

Monica looked at Ryan. Why had he corrected himself like that? What was he going to say? Monica figured she knew. The “li” he’d started out with could only mean he'd been about to say that he’d bet his life on it. His quick action to correct himself meant he probably understood the danger of the situation he was in, given the world situation and his proximity to Puccini. 

“Well,” Kristen said, “good thing I'm here, huh?” Her eyes twinkled despite her apparent nervousness. Monica stifled a laugh. In her heart, she knew already what the outcome of this encounter was going to be for Ryan and Kristen. 

Minutes passed as the three worked silently. Ryan and Monica set the couch against the wall, across the room from the front door. Ryan then pulled the coffee table in front of the couch while Kristen lugged a side table into the corner, next to the couch. Monica dragged the TV stand to the opposite corner from the side table, next to the door, and set the TV set and VCR on it. “I’ll have the cable installed later,” she said. 

After the three of them set up the dining table and the chairs in the kitchen, Monica wiped her forehead with a cotton handkerchief. “I could use a break. Would anyone like some coffee?” 

Ryan smiled and nodded. “I’d like some, thanks,” Kristen said, glancing at Ryan. Beads of sweat, Monica noticed, rolled down their foreheads. With a smile, she strolled toward the cabinet to get some cups. 

For the next fifteen minutes, the three sat in the kitchen, taking sips of steaming _mocha-latté_ and chatting about the recent events. Ryan talked about his sister and brother-in-law, then Kristen described her job as Puccini’s secretary. Monica rested the tips of her fingers around the edge of her cup as she listened. 

“He’s never liked to be called ‘Mr. Puccini,’ or by his formal titles.” Kristen leaned her right elbow on the table as she spoke. “He prefers to be called ‘Antonio,’ as Ryan has found out.” She smiled, and Ryan chuckled. 

“I don’t feel right about it,” Ryan admitted, “but since that’s what he wants, that’s what I’ll call him.” He looked at Monica. “You had just been hired, too.” He reached down to rub his left hand on his jeans. 

Monica nodded. “Yes, I was.” She paused to take a sip of coffee. “Just a few days ago, in fact.” 

When, some time later, Ryan and Kristen said good-bye to Monica, dusk had started to fall. A few minutes later, Ryan paused in front of Kristen’s door. “I don’t know what our schedules will be tomorrow, but I’ll find out in the morning,” he said. “In the meantime...well, uh, I saw a nice little café down the street when we returned from the airport. Would you like to go there with me, this evening?” 

Kristen’s eyes brightened, and her mouth widened into a broad smile. “Yes, I would. What time would you like to go there?” 

Ryan glanced at his watch. “I’ll come for you in a couple of hours. I still need to bathe and change my clothes.” 

Kristen nodded. “I’ll see you then.” She entered her apartment; leaning against the wall, she patted her hair and beamed. Joy welled up in her. Ryan had asked her out! 

Ryan whistled as he returned to his own apartment. Excitement raced through his heart as he thought of the coming evening. He was sure of one thing now--he and Kristen were attracted to each other! What it would lead to, he didn’t know. But he was willing to find out. At least, the crime wave that engulfed most cities at this time had been kept at bay in Rome, thanks to the excellent services of the Italian police. He knew why--so few of their police officers had disappeared. 

**____________________________**

Sighing, Christina perched on the edge of her armchair and opened her Bible. As she glanced toward the front door, then toward the hall entrance, she silently prayed that Richard would not enter the living room until she had finished her devotions. He was getting more and more nasty about her quiet times with God, so she tried to schedule her devotions when he wasn't in earshot. Fortunately, he had gone upstairs two hours earlier, to take a nap. Gloria had left the house an hour before to run some errands, so Christina had the whole first floor to herself to herself. 

For a few minutes, she read several passages in the Book of Romans. Then, leaning back, she closed the Bible and took a deep breath. 

“God, help us, please,” she prayed softly, careful to keep her voice low. “I’m so worried about Richard. Please open his eyes, God, and help me, too. And please protect Ryan. I’m really worried about him, working for Puccini.” 

“Christina! Are you at it again?” 

Christina froze, as an irate Richard appeared in the doorway leading into the hall. “What did I say?” He glared fiercely at his wife. 

Christina pressed her lips into a tight line as she silently prayed for patience. Slowly, she set her Bible on the coffee table, next to the _TV Guide_. “Yes, Richard, I was at it again.” She forced herself to speak in a low voice. Her stomach churned as she took another deep breath. “Tell me, why does it bother you so much that I pray, Richard?” 

Richard stomped toward her, fury etched on his face. “You know good and well why. I’m not going to explain it again.” He clenched his hands so tightly his knuckles turned white, as he paused a second, then backed up. “This is it! I’ve had it, Christina!” He slammed his fist against the wall. “I mean it--I’ve _had_ it! I can’t endure a stupid, kooky, religious wife anymore! I’ve a good mind to just pack my bags and leave for good!” Cursing, Richard stalked out the front door and slammed it. 

Christina slid onto the couch, stunned. For a long moment, she stared at the TV set. Then, as rage and terror welled up in her, she picked up the _TV Guide_ and flung it against the TV set. “I can’t stand you anymore, Richard! I’ve had it!” she screamed. “You’re the most horrible, rotten, pigheaded creep I’ve ever met!” She rushed toward the door, swung it open, and screeched at the departing car, “Go away, you creep!” 

Slamming the door, she rushed upstairs and flung herself on the bed. For the next half-hour, she sobbed nonstop. More than once, she thrust her fists against the yielding bedspread. 

At last, her sobs subsided, and she lay curled on her side, tears staining her face. The mattress sagged beneath her as she shifted position. “I’ve had it!” she muttered. “I can’t take anymore. Richard’s going to divorce me, and then I’ll be all alone!” She propped herself on her elbows to scowl at the ceiling. “Does God care that I’m about to lose my marriage?” She hollered, _“Do You even care?!”_

She buried her face into the bedcovers and took a deep, shuddering breath. _God does not love me,_ she thought. _He doesn’t care about me at all! First He took my baby girl, and now He’s about to destroy my marriage!_

Unknown to her, Gloria and Tess leaned against the wall, gaping at her. “We’ve got to do something fast,” Gloria said. 

Tess nodded agreement. “We will, baby. And soon. But we must wait for the Father’s orders.” Gloria bit her lip as she shifted her gaze from Tess to Christina. As she ran her index finger along the handle of her glasses, she silently prayed that God would act before it was too late.


	11. Chapter 10

Sitting in the cockpit, two days later, Richard stared straight ahead. Next to him, Andrew focused on the controls. The two pilots were enroute to the Middle East. 

Flying was normally such a comfort, but today Richard could hardly concentrate. His arguments with Christina tumbled through his mind constantly. He had actually threatened to divorce her if she didn’t give up her faith. Richard shook his head--he couldn’t believe he’d said that. When he got home, he’d have to plead temporary insanity to his wife on that one. On top of that, his recurring grief over Nicole and Jessica had surged up repeatedly that morning, forcing him to enter the bathroom and take deep breaths to calm down. 

Richard scowled. For once, flying wasn’t helping. Whenever he and Christina had fought before, he could always make peace by getting her a present from some foreign country as a peace offering. This time, however, he feared it might take more than a gift to mend the rift between them. Try as he did, he couldn't get his mind off their argument. They had not exchanged ten words between them since. 

He glanced sideways at Andrew, who leaned forward, gazing down at the instrument panel. A half-full glass of lemonade stood on a tray next to him; Andrew had been taking periodic sips of it for the last 15 minutes. _Wish I had something to drink,_ he thought. _Anything to get my mind off home! And my sister! And my baby daughter._

Glancing around for something to distract him, Richard saw the newspaper, and the front-page headline, “Puccini Works for World Peace.” Ahh, perfect topic of discussion with Andrew! 

Richard glanced at the newspaper again. “Well, Andrew,” he said, “what did you think of Puccini’s speech?” He rubbed his right hand on the front of his uniform. Leaning back in his chair, Andrew glanced at him, then took a sip of lemonade. 

Setting the Styrofoam cup back on the tray, Andrew took a deep breath and tensed. “Well...I think...” Andrew hesitated. 

As Richard waited for Andrew to continue, he frowned. He didn't get it. Puccini’s speech was what everyone was talking about...why was Andrew so uncomfortable discussing it? Andrew bit his lower lip, then took a deep breath. 

“I think...” Andrew repeated; Richard fidgeted as impatience surged through him. Finally, Andrew let out a long sigh and said, “Well, Richard, I don’t think Puccini can be trusted.” 

Richard was taken aback. Not trust Puccini? He gaped at Andrew in disbelief. 

“You don't trust Puccini?” Andrew shook his head in the negative. Richard let out a short, humorless laugh. “Not trust Puccini...why...you may as well not be trusting this plane! Nowadays, I think you’re gonna be depending on him to stay alive.” Richard wasn't normally so vocal about his opinions, but he had to keep the conversation rolling. 

Andrew smiled, but there was no smile in his eyes. “You know the old axiom, Richard: ‘Power corrupts, and absolute power corrects absolutely.’” Richard shrugged. At the moment, he wasn’t sure he cared. He had a strong hunch that not many did, anymore. 

Andrew leaned back in his chair. For a long moment, he gazed down at the controls as Richard waited. “A man with absolute power can be corrupted by it easily,” he said. “It’s very easy for such a man to become a tyrant, and throughout history, many such men have. And a man who’s about to become the absolute ruler of the whole world...” Andrew shook his head. 

“You think he’s going to become a tyrant,” Richard finished. “A tyrant with no concern for the needs of the people.” Andrew nodded. 

Pursing his lips, Richard shook his head. He had no desire to get any further into this discussion. A memory of his former first officer, Timothy Hill, flashed into his mind... 

_“The Bible says that in the end times, a leader will emerge from the Roman Empire,” Timothy said. “He'll promote world peace, and even achieve it, and he’ll make peace between Israel and her Arab neighbors. But in the end, he'll be bad news.”..._

Richard pressed his lips into a tight line. Timothy had insinuated that Puccini was this world leader the Bible had predicted. Was Andrew about to say the same thing? 

_If he does,_ he thought, _I won’t listen!_ He reached into his pants pocket for his handkerchief and rubbed his forehead, then stuffed it back. 

As if reading his mind, Andrew said no more. Instead, he glanced at Richard with a sorrowful expression. _Please, God, give me the words to open his heart,_ he silently prayed. 

**__________________________**

Ryan looked across the table at Kristen; clusters of other customers sat at the tables around them. No one could convince him otherwise--Kristen was the smartest, funniest, and prettiest woman who had ever walked the face of the planet. If he’d thought working with her was a privilege, dating her had sure shown him what the real privilege was! Kristen had a natural grace he’d been attracted to from the moment he saw her. She was the only person he knew who could take a sweater-and-jeans combination and still look like a princess. 

It had been three days since their coffee date, but it felt like forever. Ryan and Kristen had talked for hours over cup after cup of coffee and one or two doughnuts. Now, three days later, they were having dinner at a restaurant that was a little taste of home for them both. It could only be described as a fast-food place with waitresses--a restaurant that served American food. 

They had ordered and paid at the front; now they were waiting for a waitress to bring them their food. The closest thing to American food that one would find in any other part of Italy was pizza. 

Neither felt like talking at the moment. Both were listening to the music in the background at the moment. Ryan sat leaning back in his chair, his hands in his jeans pockets. Kristen leaned forward to rest her elbows on the end of the smooth, polished table. In the background, a beautiful song that both were familiar with played softly from a TV set that was set to an American music video station. 

_“Did you ever know that you’re my hero?_

_And that you’re all that I'd like to be._

_I can fly higher than an eagle,_

_'Cause you are the wind, beneath my wings.”_

Kristen smiled and closed her eyes, swaying slightly to the tune of the music. “Mmm,” she said. “Did you know this is one of my favorite songs?” 

Ryan grinned. He had suspected as much, from intense concentration she had been giving to it. Still, he couldn’t resist practically shouting, “Mine, too! I love that song!” 

“Yet another thing we have in common!” Kristen leaned back and laughed. “How many is that now?” 

Ryan chuckled along. During their talks, they’d realized that they had so much in common it was almost scary. “I’ve long since lost count, Kristen. And you obviously have, too.” 

Kristen nodded, pretending to be upset with herself. At that moment, the waitress approached, carrying a large tray. She set a plate with fried chicken and mashed potatoes in front of Kristen, and a plate with a large cheeseburger and fries before Ryan. 

As they ate, conversation picked up again, but the subject almost made him wish it hadn’t. “So...what did you think of Puccini's speech?” She wiped her lips with her paper napkin as she spoke. 

Ryan tried to keep from flinching visibly. Despite falling for Kristen, he still wasn't 100% sure he could trust her with his suspicions and experiences. He didn’t know where she stood with Puccini, and if he told her she might report his suspicions to their boss. Ryan shuddered, remembering Puccini’s mental threat, as he’d come to call it. If he learned Ryan mistrusted him and seriously considered quitting every time he looked Puccini in the eye...only God in Heaven knew how Puccini would react. 

Ryan tried to come up with a good answer. He did think Puccini’s speech was convincing...maybe a little too convincing, like he was trying too hard. Then again, Ryan might just be paranoid. He suspected he might have had an over-active imagination...but there was no denying what he had heard in his mind when Puccini had threatened him. 

Finally, Ryan realized something. He had the perfect escape point! As he leaned back, he shook his head. “You know, I can’t believe that, less than a week after the worse catastrophe to hit the planet, everyone is talking about some speech!” 

Ryan wished he had phrased the last part differently from how he had. It sounded unimpressive, and that was the last image he wanted to portray, to anyone. Least of all Kristen. 

To Ryan’s surprise, Kristen didn’t seem to notice. Instead, she simply said, “I guess everyone’s trying to fill up their minds with other things, to block off the pain that day caused.” Her fork clinked as she laid it on the edge of the plate. 

Ryan noticed a hint of pain in her voice. How could he have been so stupid?! Even he had tried not to think about the loss of millions all over the world, but it was like a boomerang--no matter how hard you threw it, it always kept coming back. 

“I'm sorry.” He gently covered her hand with his. “Did...” For some strange reason, Ryan's voice broke. “Did you lose anyone?” 

Kristen nodded, her eyes moist. “Half my family.” She gazed down at her plate. 

Ryan swallowed the lump that had formed in his throat. Somehow, when Kristen was hurting, he hurt with her. _Don’t cry,_ he pleaded with her silently. _Please don’t cry._

The TV in the background played another song. 

_“We need some help,_

_Down here on earth._

_A thousand prayers,_

_A million words,_

_But one voice was heard.”_

Ryan didn't know what to say. The song seemed to express his thoughts exactly. Planet Earth did need help. The question was...how many people were still aware of that? Pondering that, he reached down to rub his left hand on his jeans, then picked up his hamburger to take another bite. 

As he chewed and swallowed, the song suddenly broke off. A voice spoke on the television speaker. “We interrupt this program for a breaking news bulletin.” 

Exchanging worried looks, Ryan and Kristen half-turned their bodies toward the TV set to listen. An anchorman sat behind a desk and a microphone, ruffling papers before him. Ryan sensed that something serious had occurred. 

“Five minutes ago, the Dome of the Rock collapsed without warning on the Temple Mount in Jerusalem. As yet, there are no reports of fatalities.” 

Kristen gasped audibly, and Ryan flinched. This was big news, and it surely meant an imminent trip to Israel. As the announcer explained the event, Ryan and Kristen focused on the TV set. 

When he paused, Ryan and Kristen made eye contact across the table; no words were needed. At that moment, Ryan’s pager started beeping. “Puccini,” Ryan said. Kristen nodded. Ryan took a deep breath and gazed down at his half-finished plate. 

Silently, Ryan did the mental math and figured out how much their meal would have cost. He laid a large bill on the table and strode out the door, with Kristen at his side. As much as Ryan dreaded it, he knew they had to get to work, since this was an emergency. Puccini needed his pilot. 

**__________________________**

Andrew sat up straight in his seat, gazing at the light-gray cloud surrounding their plane. He resisted the temptation to slouch. He was winning Richard’s respect, slowly but surely, and he didn’t want to ruin it by acting unprofessionally. They weren’t too far away from their destination, and Andrew hoped that he’d run into Tess in Israel...he had so many questions! 

His role in this assignment was as cloudy as the view outside their windshield. Richard was so cold and stubborn, it would be practically impossible to ever soften him up. Every time he looked at the man, Andrew had to remind himself that with God, all things were possible. Andrew wanted nothing more than to find out why Richard was so bitter towards God, but Tess hadn’t explained that to him. He got the impression from Gloria that Richard hadn’t suddenly gotten bitter when the Rapture took his baby away, so he had no idea what the reason might be. Silently, he prayed that God would reveal it to him. 

Andrew glanced down at the now-empty Styrofoam cup. When the flight attendant returned to the cockpit, he would ask her to bring him another cup. 

Without warning, the radio crackled to life. “Pan-World Flight 55, this is Ben-Gurion Control Tower. Do you read me?” Andrew jumped and looked across the cockpit at Richard, who pushed a button on the radio. 

“Tower, this is Pan-World Flight 55, ten-four,” Richard said. Andrew detected a note of surprise in the pilot’s voice at receiving communication from the tower this soon. They were still a good half-hour’s trip away from the airport, so what could the airport want? 

“Ben-Gurion is being shut down, 55; proceed to another airstrip,” the accented voice said. Richard and Andrew exchanged puzzled glances. The airport was being shut down? Why? 

Richard asked that same question. “Copy that, tower; what's the reason?” Andrew wondered how Richard had managed to sound that calm, with no traces of confusion in his voice. Richard’s blue eyes betrayed a hint of confusion as he glanced at Andrew, then looked away. Andrew smiled to himself humorlessly--Richard would never admit confusion to anyone. 

The voice came back over the radio, its explanation simple in words, but powerful in message. “Disaster on the Temple Mount--the Dome of the Rock just collapsed.” 

Richard's eyes widened, and Andrew stared at him in shock. He knew the temple was going to be rebuilt prior to or during the first part of the tribulation, but he hadn’t expected anything as dramatic as the Dome of the Rock collapsing. Since the site of the original Holy of Holies lay a hundred meters to the north of the dome, he hadn’t thought that would be necessary. The mattress sagged underneath Andrew as he leaned back in his chair and shook his head. This would certainly speed up the prophetic developments! 

Richard frowned for a moment, then spoke into the radio’s microphone. “I wasn’t aware of that, tower; will proceed to another airport. Any recommendations?” 

Andrew was impressed with how calmly Richard seemed to accept that news. This was a big development, huge...on a political level as well as spiritual one. Still, Richard's question made sense to ask--they needed a place to land. The angel of death leaned sideways to listen for the answer. 

“We're forwarding all flights to Tel Aviv,” the voice responded. 

“Copy that tower, redirecting flight course now.” Richard glanced at Andrew. No words were needed; the passengers would have to be informed of this change in plan. Andrew nodded. 

Richard reached for the radio. Switching to the channel used to speak to the passengers, he cleared his throat. “Ladies and gentlemen, this is your captain speaking. I regret to announce that the Ben Gurion airport has just been closed, so we will not be landing there. We will be rerouting to the airport in Tel Aviv.” 

Richard switched the radio off. Andrew leaned back in his chair, frowning. When he had a chance, he was going to discuss this development with Tess. _Father,_ he prayed, _what does this mean for our assignments?_

As he glanced at Richard, he saw a photo lying in the pilot’s outstretched right hand. He glanced at it and smiled. “That’s a very pretty photo,” he said. “Is that someone you know?” 

“Knew.” Grimacing, Richard stuffed it into his wallet and inserted his wallet into his pocket. “My sister.” He paused. “Her name was Nicole.” 

Andrew nodded. Something told him that the situation with Nicole was the cause of Richard’s bitter atheism. He prayed, silently, that Richard would open up toward him. 

“Would it help to talk about it?” Andrew asked gently. 

Richard leaned back. For a long moment, he did not speak. When he did, his voice sounded bitter and hard. “She’s dead.” He paused. “She was murdered when she was fourteen.” 

Andrew winced in shock. So that was it! For a moment, he wondered which angel of death had escorted Nicole home. Adam, perhaps. Out loud, he said, “I’m so sorry to hear that.” 

Richard nodded. “Thanks.” He bit his lip, as he gazed down at his lap. Minutes passed in silence. 

“She had just started her freshman year in high school.” Richard paused. “She was a wonderful girl, a great sister. She believed in God, believe it or not.” He pressed his lips into a tight line of displeasure. “And a fat lot of good it did her!” 

“Why is that?” Andrew furrowed his eyebrows in concern. 

“Because her belief in God didn’t save her life.” Richard banged his fist on the instrument panel. “She was kidnapped. Some creep grabbed her and dragged her into his car--she was screaming. A woman saw the whole thing from a distance, and ran to the nearest pay phone to call the police.” 

He paused again. “It took the police all of 30 minutes to get there, and by that time, well, let’s just say they could have saved the trip. They never found her--till it was too late.” He swallowed hard. “They found her body in a field, in upstate New York, eight days later. Her throat was slit, and her hands were tied behind her back. She had been dead for almost a week.” 

For a long moment, Andrew did not speak. Silently, he prayed for wisdom. “That must have been quite traumatic for you.” 

Richard glowered at him. “Would you believe I actually prayed during those 8 days?” He clenched his fists into tight balls. “Every day--repeatedly--I begged God to save my sister and bring her home! When we received the news at the end of our long wait…” He swallowed. “Well, that was when I knew there was no God. There never was, never has been! Because if there were, He would have saved Nicole. She was such a sweet, good girl, and she believed in Him! And for _what_?” He spat into the ashtray by his side. 

As deep sadness for Richard welled up in Andrew, he rose to his feet and rested a hand on the pilot’s shoulder. With a sigh, Andrew patted his hand. “Thanks, Andrew.” He fidgeted. “I’ve lived with the pain for years now, and I’ve learned to endure it. It will never go away.” 

Andrew patted his shoulder and returned to his chair. He knew, now, what Richard’s problem was, and he knew where to focus his prayers. _Please, God, help him. Please heal his wounded heart and give him a new faith._

**__________________________**

Christina leaned her head against the bedroom wall, taking a shuddering sigh. Things were going from bad to worse. She and Richard had had some nasty arguments since her born-again experience, but this was the first time Richard had threatened divorce. From the moment of their fight till his departure for the airport, he had given her the cold shoulder, and she had not dared speak to him unless absolutely necessary. 

“I can’t stand it anymore!” she moaned. “What am I going to do if Richard divorces me? Does God even care?” She shook her head violently. 

“Of course He does.” Gloria’s voice startled her; Christina whirled to face her. “I’m sorry; I didn’t mean to startle you.” Gloria smiled apologetically. “I was coming upstairs to find you, and I just happened to overhear you talking to yourself.” She rubbed her fingers on the nightstand as she spoke. 

With a nod, Christina trudged toward the bed. The mattress sagged underneath her as she slumped on its edge. With a sigh, she gazed down at her slack-clad legs. “Gloria, I’m at the end of my rope. I told you that Richard would make things miserable for me when he learned I’d accepted the Lord, and he is! Our marriage is about to end. And if what you’ve told me about a seven-year Tribulation is true--” She choked back a sob. “How am I going to survive without a husband to comfort and protect me?” 

An unwanted tear trickled down her cheek. She reached up to swipe it away. Gloria approached her and touched her shoulder. 

“You must turn to God and let _Him_ comfort you,” Gloria said softly. “He knows what you’re going through now, and He knows all about Richard’s stubborn, angry heart. He’s working on Richard, even as we speak, but it’s going to take time and patience.” She perched on the bed next to Christina and laid a hand on her friend’s arm. “God hasn’t abandoned you, Christina. He never abandons His children. He always makes a way to bear and triumph over hard times, and He’s doing that for you right now. And He’s going to go on doing so.” 

For a long moment, Christina thought about what Gloria had said. When she looked up, she sighed. “You’re right.” She smiled wanly. “It’s just so hard to trust God when my own husband’s against me.” She shook her head. 

Gloria put her arm around Christina’s shoulders. “Shall we pray for Richard?” she asked. Christina nodded. Together, woman and angel prayed for Richard’s salvation and for the healing of the Daly marriage. 

At last, Gloria sat up straight. “Christina, there’s something you need to know. The Ben Gurion airport in Jerusalem has been closed. I just learned from watching the news, downstairs, that the Dome of the Rock collapsed today.” 

Christina stared at her. “My--my Richard--?” 

Gloria smiled. “I’m sure he’s all right, Christina--there were no reports of airplane crashes. But what’s happened today is going to be very important. With the Dome gone, the Moslems won’t be able to prevent Israel from rebuilding its Temple anymore.” 

Christina swallowed hard. “You--you said that an agreement between the Antichrist and Israel would begin the Tribulation.” Gloria nodded. “And that this agreement would make it possible to rebuild their Temple.” She paused. “That means things are speeding up!” 

Gloria nodded. “Yes. In a very short time, the Tribulation will begin. Already, the beginning of a new world government is being set up, and a world religion along with it.” She pushed her glasses up her nose. 

Christina rose to her feet. She paced the bedroom several times, pondering the new developments. At last, she turned to face Gloria. “What I’m going through now is minor compared to what I’m going to go through,” she said slowly. “Richard and I may well lose our lives before this is over.” 

Gloria nodded, as sadness creased her face. “That’s certainly possible.” She stood up. “I can’t promise you’ll live to see His coming, Christina, but this I _do_ promise you: if you’ll remain true to Him, He’ll get you through the next 7 years with your soul intact. And whether you enter the Kingdom as a mortal believer or a resurrected one, you’ll be a part of the Millennium and the eternity that’s going to follow.” She smiled encouragingly. 

Christina nodded. “Is it on the news right now?” 

Gloria shrugged. “It was when I came up.” 

Leaping to her feet, Christina rushed into the hall and darted down the stairs. Gloria followed her. Christina silently prayed that God would protect Richard and soften his heart. 

**__________________________**

Monica strolled down the aisle of the plane, smiling cordially at the passengers. She had no idea why her presence was required, since only Puccini and a few members of his staff were flying to Israel--Puccini hadn't even brought the prime minister. Come to think of it, she didn't know why they were in Puccini’s large plane instead of taking a smaller one. Still, for some strange reason, Puccini seemed to think her presence there would be necessary. 

A voice broke into her thoughts. “How much longer?” Puccini snapped. He leaned forward and glared at Monica. An open cellular phone lay on the table at his side, she noticed. Apparently, he’d been making calls. 

The angel fought the urge to say that Puccini had his own watch and that he should use it. Instead, she pressed her fingers together in front of her waist and said, “We only took off 15 minutes ago, Mr. Puccini--uh, Antonio. We still have an hour and 45 minutes before we're supposed to touch down at Ben-Gurion.” She put an apologetic look on her face, hoping that would mollify him. 

Puccini clenched his fists and tensed. Monica turned away and smiled humorlessly. Less than a month ago, she never would have imagined herself watching the Antichrist tense up. Then again, who was where they’d thought they would be less than a month ago? Or even less than a week ago? 

Puccini’s voice barked again. “Get me something to calm me down! I will go crazy unless I get something out here now.” 

Monica guessed what he was talking about, and a knot formed in her gut as she walked to the galley. Why her? Why did she have to be assigned to work under the Antichrist--a demon-energized man who wanted her to do things that went against her moral code? Her discomfort fueled into anger--he knew she was an angel! He knew what she believed about liquor...and he asked for it anyway. 

Her anger dissipated, as an idea came to her. Of course...he hadn’t exactly asked for alcohol directly, had he? 

For the next few minutes, Monica rummaged through the cabinets. There...a box of teabags. Perfect. She started to pull the box out when a round coffee tin caught her eye. Of course! How could she give Puccini something to relax him unless it was her special drink? With mischief gleaming in her eye, she grabbed the tin with her other hand. Just picturing Puccini’s face made her want to burst out laughing! 

Pulling a teabag out of the box, she reached for a pair of scissors with her free hand. The “sugary” on the teabag took three minutes. Good thing the Father had provided her with a small pocket-sized stapler to quickly re-seal the teabag after adding the coffee grains. By the time she had put the tea/coffee bag in a glass and added a little bit of sugar, the kettle was whistling. A cloud of steam poured out of its snout. 

Monica brought the drink to Puccini on a tray. She tried to hide her mischievous glint under a professional smile. Monica handed him the glass, then held the tray at her side. He eyed the brownish liquid, then looked at her warily. Not taking his eyes off her he sipped the drink...and spit it out onto the plane floor. “You little--!” 

The crash of the glass shattering on the carpeted floor drowned out the rest of his words. Monica jumped back, and Puccini froze in his seat. Glass fragments and dark liquid spilled everywhere. 

“I'm sorry, President Puccini.” Monica tried not to choke on the words. She wasn't sorry in the least, but she didn‘t want Puccini to know that. Then she decided the innocent approach was the best approach. “What’s wrong, sir?” 

_“That!”_ Puccini gasped, pointing to the spilled mixture. “That is disgusting! I have never tasted anything more revolting in my entire life!” 

It was all Monica could do to keep from bursting into giggles. His reaction was a little more extreme than she’d expected, but few people really cared for her nice little combo. She barely managed to suppress a smile as she apologized again. “It's just...that's one of my favorite drinks. It always relaxes me.” 

“Well,” Puccini snapped. “I am _not_ you, nor am I anything like you. Something you know quite well.” 

Monica flinched. Did Puccini's words have a double meaning? Did he know she was an angel? Her amusement turned to fear in an instant. What if he did know? What would she do? Or, what could he do? For some reason, the idea of the Antichrist knowing the truth about her was a very frightening one. 

Puccini broke into her thoughts with a quick, “Now go get me a glass of wine. That is what makes me relax.” He pounded his fist on the chair of his arm and glared at her. Monica could have sworn she saw flakes of fire behind his eyes. 

The angel’s mind raced again. What should she do? She couldn’t serve him wine...alcohol of any kind was wrong--she wouldn’t serve it. Yet she’d already angered him once, and she didn‘t want to do that again, if she could help it. She tried to tell herself it didn’t matter--Puccini wasn’t her assignment, so she didn’t have to make an impression on him. But what to do? 

Monica prayed silently for guidance. As she continued praying, she stared blankly out the window at the fleecy clouds drifting past their airplane. A few moments later, an idea came to her. “Thank you, Father,” she whispered, too softly for anyone to hear. 

She pivoted to face Antonio, who picked up his cell phone and punched some buttons. “Get me Elijah Dayan,” he barked. As he cradled the phone next to his ear, he glared at Monica, who swallowed and squared her shoulders. 

“I have to clean up this mess,” she said, as calmly as she could manage. As she knelt down and began picking up the broken glass, she added, “I'll ask Patty to bring you your wine.” 

Nodding, Puccini waited for his party to answer his call; seconds later, he started talking. While Antonio carried on his discussion, Monica swept up the glass shards with her bare hands. Ten minutes after she’d started, she picked up the last glass fragment and carried them to the galley. 

**__________________________**

As he set the cell phone down on the table, Antonio leaned back in his seat, and relaxed visibly. He’d never admit it to anyone, but that angel made him nervous. She was on assignment, he knew it beyond a shadow of a doubt. The question was, who was she assigned to? It was entirely possible Ryan was her assignment, and that caused Puccini no end of worry. He wished there was some way he could counter Monica’s influence, but he wasn’t even sure how heavily influenced Ryan was at this point in time. He made a mental note to get out the Ouija board when he got home, to make some inquiries about her. 

Although he hated to admit it, Monica had done well on the tests he’d given her. Without saying a word about it, she’d stuck with her beliefs on alcohol despite his demands. Puccini suppressed a grin; she was strong, he had to give her that. He would have to see how she handled thinly veiled threats very soon. 

The cell phone jangled. _Good,_ he thought. _That must be Elijah with the news I have been waiting for._

**__________________________**

Monica hurried into the galley. When she dumped the glass shards into the trashcan, she gave the other flight attendant a hurried request: “Patty--Puccini--would--like--a--glass--of--wine--could--you--get--it--for--him?” Without taking a breath, she grabbed a washrag, wet it, and hurried back out down the aisle, leaving her shocked co-worker standing in the galley. 

Monica wasn’t sure how much time had gone by, she was sure it wasn’t much. Yet, for some reason, Puccini was glaring at her as if she’d been gone for an hour. Without saying a word or even looking at him, she knelt on the floor and began scrubbing at the brown patch on the coal-black carpet. Tufts of carpet pressed her pants against her knees as she pressed the washrag in circles on the carpet. The coffee-and-tea mixture came off easily. All the while, Puccini talked with Elijah Dayan on the phone about an upcoming meeting to be held in Israel. 

When Monica had finished, she carefully searched the carpet for more of the brown mixture. Good, she had wiped it all up--although parts of the carpet looked and felt damp, no trace of the liquid remained. Suddenly, Puccini’s voice interrupted her work. 

“Where is Patty? Why has she not brought my wine?” he snapped. 

“I don't know, sir,” Monica said softly, almost shyly. Over the past few days she'd had to remind herself over and over that this man was the Antichrist. Now it was easy to believe. “I told her to bring you some wine.” 

Monica didn't want to look at Puccini. She could feel him glaring at her. Fear was a rare feeling for her, but she felt it around this man. She heard the mattress creak under--evidently, he was shifting position on the armchair. “I am so sure,” he said sarcastically, “that you asked your co-worker to do something that you think you are too good to do yourself!” 

Monica hesitantly looked up. Puccini's oddly-colored eyes stared coldly into hers. “I mean that I know how you regard alcohol, Monica _Welleye_! And, in all honesty, my regard for you is barely higher.” 

Monica flinched. Puccini had never spoken to her like that. Come to think of it, no one ever had! If it had been anyone but the Antichrist, Monica knew those words would have penetrated her heart and hurt her deeply; instead, all she felt was an icy chill. Cold fingers of fear crept up her spine as she gazed at Antonio, who sat digging his fingers into the arms of his chair. 

The chill grew into an icy frost nearly covering the room. His eyes seemed to flow from one color to another, the way they always did. Monica knelt frozen in place...there was that dangerous blackness again. For a moment, all she could see was blackness, and the danger that portended threatened to overwhelm her. Struggling to breathe, Monica barely managed a few gasps. 

Suddenly, Monica heard a voice somewhere behind her, and Puccini’s gaze shifted. Monica practically sank to the floor in relief. Pressing the palms of her hands against the carpet, she balanced herself and looked up. 

Patty, her co-worker, handed Puccini a gleaming crystal goblet of red wine. Monica scrambled to her feet, suddenly aware that she was shaking. With a quick glance at Puccini and a nod to Patty, she hurried off. 

A mixture of strong emotions churned within her--anger at Puccini for testing her like that, and a twinge of embarrassment at being caught squatting on the floor not doing anything, but mostly fear. Not since the day God had turned her into a black woman for one of her assignments had she felt such fear. The moment she entered the galley, she leaned against the counter, facing the center of the room; squeezing her eyes shut, she took a deep breath. 

“Angel Girl?” a familiar voice spoke directly in front of her. Monica's eyes popped open. There in the kitchen stood Tess. 

All Monica’s emotions spilled over when she saw her friend. "Oh, Tess," she said, softly. She fell into her mentor’s warm embrace. Whispering words of comfort, Tess patted Monica’s back as she clasped the other angel against her chest. 

“Shh,” Tess whispered. “I'm here now. And baby, God is with you. He is not going to let Puccini harm you or disrupt your assignment, Miss Wings.” At Tess's softly spoken words, Monica dissolved into tears. 

“It was the most terrifying experience of my existence!” Monica said, her voice muffled as she buried her face in Tess's shoulder. “I couldn't breathe Tess...I couldn't breathe!” 

“Angel Girl,” Tess said gently, stroking her hair. “Just remember, Puccini has no power over you. Just look to God, baby, and He will be your strength.” 

Monica pulled just far enough away to see her supervisor’s face. Looking at Tess, she dried her tears. “Thank you, Tess,” she said softly. 

Tess patted her shoulder. “Remember what I said, Miss Wings.” 

“I will,” Monica promised. And with that, Tess disappeared. 

Monica took a deep breath, and prayed softly. “Oh, Father...thank You for Your protection, and forgive me for doubting that You would be there for me.” She gazed at the ceiling as she spoke, then glanced out the window. Suddenly, a snow-white dove flew by. A sensation of peace welled up in Monica. The Father was with her, even here; everything would be all right. 

Suddenly, Ryan’s voice from over the intercom interrupted her. “Ladies and gentlemen.” Monica briefly wondered who he was talking to when he said “gentlemen”; Puccini and Ryan were the only men on the flight. She dismissed all thoughts of that when Ryan said, “The disaster at the Temple Mount this morning has resulting in the closing of all major airports in Jerusalem. All aircraft are being redirected to the airport in Tel Aviv. We apologize for any inconvenience.” 

Monica started to leave the galley, but when the curtain was halfway open, she saw Puccini rush past her, rage etched on his face. Monica froze, holding her breath. Puccini was upset by the rerouting, that was obvious. And it was even more obvious that Puccini was upset with Ryan. “Oh, Father,” she prayed quietly, leaning against the wall. “Father, protect Ryan.” 

Out of curiosity, Monica slipped into the hallway as Puccini stormed into the cockpit. Biting her lip, Monica considered what to do. She realized that Ryan might need a convenient interruption...that was part of her job as a caseworker angel assigned to him. Feeling guilty for eavesdropping, Monica leaned her head against the cockpit door. 

“How could you just relent like that, Ryan?” Puccini fumed on the other side of the door. “We are heading for Ben-Gurion, and I say we land at Ben-Gurion! I have an important meeting in Jerusalem to get to!” 

Ryan spoke calmly and reasonably. “I'm sorry, sir; Ben-Gurion has been shut down for very understandable reasons.” 

“You would think they could make an exception in my...our case!” Monica flinched. And she had thought Puccini was angry over the drink. At this moment, Puccini sounded as though he was ready to explode. 

“I don't think so, sir,” Ryan said, politely, yet firmly. 

“Contact the tower,” Puccini ordered. “Tell them that I order them to let us land there.” 

Monica tensed. What would Ryan do? How could he argue with that? She sent up a silent request toward the Father, then pressed her ear against the wall to hear Ryan’s answer. 

“With all due respect sir,” Ryan said, “they have no reason to obey your orders. This world government you plan to lead has yet to take effect, and you’re out of Europe, in case you haven’t noticed.” 

_Thank You, Father,_ Monica prayed silently. She was impressed; clearly, Ryan could hold his own in an argument with Puccini. 

There was silence for a second. Footsteps approached the door. Monica darted behind it as it swung open--it wouldn’t do for Puccini to catch her eavesdropping. The door was less than two inches from her nose, but fortunately, Puccini left it open as he stormed back down the aisle. He did not look back. Monica smiled as she took a deep breath--at least she had escaped detection. 

She stepped around the door and slipped into the cockpit. Ryan sat facing straight ahead, his hands on the controls. Monica could see he was breathing deeply, like someone trying to catch his breath. He glanced backwards, as a questioning expression crossed his face. She needed an excuse to be in here. 

“Would you like something to drink, Captain Whittaker?” she said softly. 

Ryan shook his head. “No thanks, I have to pay attention. The autopilot won't work since we've switched directions.” He smiled. “Thanks, though. I’ll let you know if I need anything.” 

Monica smiled back. With a nod, she turned around and shut the door behind her. Silently, she thanked God for getting her near the end of the flight. If Puccini needed anything else the rest of the way, her co-workers could cover for her. Right now, it was time to sit down and spend some quality time with her Father. 

**__________________________**

Richard and Andrew stepped off the plane, clutching their flight bags against their legs. The terminal was crowded--no, crowded was an understatement. Jam-packed was closer to the truth. Richard looked around at the crowds milling around. People seemed desperate to get to their original destination. Richard would never understand why when something bad happened, airports shut down in the place where people wanted to be the most. 

There was so much noise, Richard doubted even Jessica could be this loud. _Jessica._ For the first time ever, thoughts about his daughter were unwelcome. He missed the way she would reach out for him, screeching “Da-ddy,” when she was upset about being put in the pen...or the way she would hold on to him when he would dance around the room with her. He missed his baby girl. Pain surged in his heart at the memories. 

Richard shoved all thoughts of his personal life out of his mind. He had always been good at doing that, goodness knows, having had enough practice with his memories of Nicole...but now a shadow of his pain remained in his mind no matter how hard he tried to get rid of it. He decided the best thing would be to start a conversation about something else. "What do you wanna bet Ryan and Monica are somewhere in here?" he asked Andrew. 

“I don’t bet.” Andrew smiled. “But I agree--Puccini wouldn't miss a chance to make his influence wider than it already is. So unless they landed at Ben-Gurion...” 

Richard shook his head. “Ryan wouldn’t force his way into a closed airport for anything. He and Monica are here; I’m sure of it. Why don’t we go find them?” 

“Sure,” Andrew said. “Maybe we could all meet up in the coffee shop...a couple buildings over.” He nodded toward a distant building. 

“Sounds like a plan.” Richard strode toward the terminal as he spoke, his flight bag bouncing against his leg. He couldn’t waste time. He couldn’t leave a moment for a stray thought about home. If he could just stay focused, his problems wouldn’t feel as bad. 

**__________________________**

Ryan wandered aimlessly through the terminal, shoving past one passer-by after another. Try as he did, he couldn’t stop shaking. It always confused him how, when circumstances called for it, he could be perfectly calm in the midst of an emergency or a confrontation, and completely break down afterwards. He’d been faced with both kinds of situations today, and now his body was doing exactly what he had expected it to. 

Ryan could barely move for all the people around, yet he dared not stop for fear of someone slamming into him from behind. The last time he had seen a crowd this big was…actually it hadn’t been that long ago. On the day of the disappearances, there had been crowds this size everywhere. He had been helping injured people then, and had barely noticed the mob of people. If they weren’t hurt or in shock, he had paid little attention. Yet now, for some reason, he seemed painfully aware of all the people right now. 

Any one of these people...the young man at the phone, or the middle-aged woman searching for the door...any one of them could easily be a spy for Puccini. Oh sure, he was probably paranoid and overreacting. Yet he couldn't shake the fact that there was something about Antonio Puccini--Puccini’s voice in his head, when it had threatened him the day he was hired, had made him believe it, and Puccini's show of temper today had convinced him of it. 

A man bumped against him, jostling him. “Excuse me,” Ryan muttered, clutching his flight bag against his waist. His pilot cap slid halfway down, so he reached up to position it on top of his head. 

As Ryan pushed his way through the crowd, Ryan shook his head, in an effort to clear his head. _Why do people do that?_ he wondered. _It’s not like that_ really _clears their mind or anything._ He smiled wryly at the thought. At least, that had given him the chance to change the direction of his thoughts, enabling him to reason out the situation more rationally. In truth, he wasn’t in any imminent danger, and as long as he didn’t give Puccini any reason to suspect his mistrust, he probably wouldn’t be. With a determined nod, Ryan forced himself to consider other matters that affected his immediate family. 

Richard and Christina were having marital problems; there was no hiding that. With so many changes, that was to be expected. Jessica was gone, and Christina's new friend had talked her into getting religion. What Richard didn’t understand was that there were lots of people all over the world doing exactly what Christina was doing, and some of them hadn’t lost anyone as close to them as Christina had. Ryan couldn’t help but think that if Richard was going to harass someone about their choice of beliefs, it should be one of the crackpots who thought aliens had snatched up a bunch of people with weaker minds. He shook his head--he was going to have to have a talk with his brother-in-law. “Someone needs to talk some sense into him,” he muttered, glancing down at his watch. 

“Ryan!” 

Ryan froze and scanned the crowded terminal. Who had called him? 

The voice again called him name. At that moment, a familiar face appeared within the crowd. “Ryan!” Richard repeated as he neared. 

“Hey, Richard,” Ryan said, waving. With a delighted grin, he broke into a run as he approached his brother-in-law. 

**__________________________**

At the same moment, Monica wandered around the grounds of the same terminal. Sunshine beat on her tanned face, forcing her to squint. Puccini had long since been taken by limo to his meeting with several leaders, but she was still lost, dazed, and confused. She wasn't sure where Ryan was, since she had left the plane long before he had. There was a strong possibility he was still there. If only she could find him! 

Suddenly a familiar voice called out to her from across the crowd. “Monica?” 

Monica looked up. About 60 feet away stood Andrew. He was scanning the crowded place, looking for her. He held a flight bag against his right leg. 

“Andrew!” she yelled. She motioned for him to head for the side of the building, near the benches. It wasn’t so crowded there. Unsure if he was following, she turned and looked over her shoulder as she headed in that direction herself. To her relief, Andrew strode after her, a broad smile on his face. 

**__________________________**

Richard and Ryan dropped their flight bags and flew the last few feet toward each other. As the two friends shook hands and then embraced, Richard smiled, despite the anger seething in his eyes. Ryan plastered a smile on his own face in return. What had happened to the Richard Daly of a few weeks ago? He’d been replaced by the tense, angry man that stood before him. Of course, the same could practically be said for himself. He mentally shook himself, since he didn’t want to think on that question for more than a second. 

“Andrew and I thought we’d find you and Monica here.” Richard picked up his flight bag as he spoke. 

Ryan wasn’t sure what his own response was, but it sounded an awful lot like, “Uh.” A fog enmeshed his mind. So much was going on. Why did everything have to happen at once? First millions of people had disappeared, then some guy from Italy had made plans to change the world, and then the Dome of the Rock had collapsed. What was going to happen next? How could a mind process it all? At least, that's what he tried to convince himself that his mind was in a fog over. 

As Ryan picked up his own flight bag, he knew, deep down, that wasn’t the real issue at all. Anger--intense anger--lay in the pit of his gut, churning his stomach. He’d seen how Richard was treating Christina since her radical change, and he didn’t like it. Yet his mind and entire body rebelled at the thought of being angry with Richard. They’d been best friends for years and brothers-in-law for the last five, so he just let himself sink into other thoughts, trying to pay attention to what Richard was saying. He’d wrestle with this issue later. 

“Uh--what?” Ryan blinked. “What did you say?” 

Richard scowled. “I said it was annoying, having to change my route like that. If that stupid dome hadn’t collapsed when it did, I could have flown to Jerusalem as planned.” 

Ryan nodded. “It was inconvenient for me, too, but not too bad. Unfortunately, Puccini didn’t think so.” He grimaced. “He was gonna insist that Ben-Gurion Airport let us land anyway. I had to remind him he didn’t have jurisdiction over that area yet.” 

Shaking his head, Richard jerked his head toward a door at the end of the crowded hall. Silently, Ryan followed him down the corridor. 

**__________________________**

A moment later, Andrew and Monica both stood by a bench and embraced. Monica's mind spun. Today had been among the worst days of her life, but now she was safe. Safe in the embrace of a friend and in the love of the Father. The feeling overwhelmed her, and she broke into tears. 

“Monica?” she heard Andrew say softly. “Monica, what’s wrong?” Monica wanted to say something, but she couldn't. She was too overwhelmed, the entire day had taken its toll, and the sudden safety she felt had left her without defense against the tears that refused to stop. 

Andrew just held her for several seconds, as Monica did her best to pull herself together. When she did, she pulled away slightly and dried her tears. “I'm sorry,” she mumbled, before slumping down onto the bench. Andrew stood above her, eyebrows furrowed in concern. 

**__________________________**

As Ryan spoke, he glanced at the opposite wall. _I wonder what Monica’s doing,_ he thought. At that moment, his stomach growled. Out loud, he said, “I’m going to find me a restaurant soon.” A hard tone crept into his voice as he spoke. 

“Me, too.” Looking back, Richard stared at his brother-in-law curiously. “Ryan, you want to tell me what’s eating you?” He rubbed the front of his uniform as he spoke. 

Ryan pressed his lips into a tight line. “You really want to know?” Richard nodded, gazing at him intently. Ryan recognized that look--Richard was not going to leave him alone until Ryan told him. 

Ryan frowned at Richard for a long moment. “Something’s wrong between you and Christina, Richard. I’ve been noticing it.” 

Richard clenched his left fist; with his right, he tightened his grip on the flight bag. “You've noticed.” Ryan nodded. “Yes, and the problem’s Christina.” He hurled his flight bag on the floor. 

“Because she’s turned religious--is that it?” With an effort, Ryan kept his voice even. 

Richard glared at Ryan. “Yes--that’s it. It makes me so mad that my sensible wife--my one-time _sensible_ wife--would turn to those stupid fairy tales to help her cope! I can’t stand it, Ryan.” 

Ryan nodded. “So you’ve been bullying her every chance you get.” He took a deep breath. “You’ve been making her pretty miserable about it, haven’t you?” 

Clenching both fists, Richard took a step forward with such a fierce look on his face that Ryan resisted a violent impulse to step back. His face had turned beet-red. “That’s none of your business, Ryan! It’s _my_ marriage and _my_ wife!” 

“And _my_ sister!” Ryan shot back. “You forget, Richard, Christina was my sister long before she was ever your wife! You think I’m going to just stand back and see her so miserable? Well, I’m not!” His flight bag landed with a thud as he dropped it on a nearby bench and whirled back to face Richard. 

**__________________________**

Andrew sat down beside her. “What's wrong?” he asked again. 

Monica took a deep breath. “Today has been one of the worst days of my life, Andrew,” she admitted. 

“The flight?” he asked softly. She nodded, and Andrew asked, “What happened?” She paused for a moment, shifting her position on the hard, unyielding bench. Andrew sat leaning toward her, eyes fixed on her face, as he waited for her to begin. 

As Monica told him the whole story, Andrew nodded periodically, compassion welling in his expressive eyes. He did not speak until she ended her monologue with a sarcastic, “Just a day in the life of an angel working under the Antichrist.” 

Pressing his lips into a wry grin, Andrew shook his head. “It sounds as if I got the better end of the deal. And here I thought Richard was impossible.” He folded his arms across his chest. 

Monica smiled slightly. Andrew could always cheer her up when she needed it most. And if there were ever a time when she needed that cheer and support, this was it. 

“Thanks,” she said softly. Andrew nodded in response, and then Monica clasped her hands in her lap. “But, seriously! How am I supposed to deal with that? He orders me to do things that go against my principles; he hints he knows the truth about me but never gives me any proof; and he turns around and threatens me!” 

Andrew shook his head. “It’s not easy to deal with a human like that,” he said, “especially one who’s being energized by the devil himself.” He smiled. “Just ask God for the wisdom you need to deal with Puccini. He’ll give it to you, and whatever backup you need, as well.” 

Monica nodded. “That’s exactly what Tess said,” she admitted. 

Andrew nodded. “Tess is right,” he said simply. “Would you like a prayer partner?” Andrew extended his hands in an invitation for her to pray with him. She took them, and she and Andrew bowed their heads for prayer while she prayed for wisdom and strength. Silently, as she had done previously, Monica added a request that God frustrate any attempts of Puccini to learn more about her through his contacts with demons. 

When they raised their heads, Andrew sighed. “I could use the same divine wisdom, Monica. I wasn’t kidding when I said that I thought Richard was impossible.” 

“Have you talked to him about how much he needs God?” Monica leaned against the bench as she spoke. 

Andrew shook his head. “Not yet. I’m waiting on the Father for that one. If I speak up too soon, I may drive Richard away, and if I speak too late.…” Andrew didn't finish the sentence. 

Monica nodded. She understood what he meant. The wrong word, or the right word spoken at the wrong time, could destroy all the work an angel had put into an assignment, especially when the assignment was a person as stiff-necked and stubborn as Richard Daly. Silently, she prayed that God would melt the hardness in Richard’s heart and save the Dalys’ marriage. 

“Have you prayed about that?” Monica asked. 

Andrew nodded. “Without ceasing,” he responded. “At least, I know, now, why his heart is so hard against God.“ He paused. “His sister was kidnapped and murdered years ago, when she was just fourteen. In his grief and bitterness, Richard hardened his heart against God, to the point where he has refused to acknowledge His existence. And still does.” 

Pain welled up in Monica’s heart. “Oh, Andrew...” 

“Yes.” After a brief moment of silence, Andrew glanced at his watch. “Hey, Monica,” he said. “Richard went to go find Ryan; we were supposed to meet in the coffee shop outside the terminal. Would you like to come?” 

“A coffee shop,” Monica repeated. A broad smile snaked across her face. “I’d love to.” 

Andrew slapped his knee. “Should have known. Let's go.” With a chuckle, he rose to his feet and led the way toward the coffee shop. 

**__________________________**

Richard spat into a nearby trash can, then glared at Ryan. “I’m not about to have my wife turning into some--some--religious nut! There’s no God, and no good comes out of pretending otherwise. My wife wants to find peace, let her do it the way sensible people do. Not by praying to some mythological Being! And certainly _not_ by claiming that I need my eyes opened--because I _don’t_!” His face turned a deep purple as he spoke. He took quick, deep breaths, as he clenched and unclenched his fists. 

Rage welled up in Ryan. For one awful moment, fought the overwhelming urge to hit Richard. Taking two steps toward the man, Ryan glared at him through eyes narrowed into slits. 

“You’re lucky I’m not a violent type, Richard Daly, because I’d be fighting you to the dust over the way you just talked about her.” He ground his teeth and took short, quick breaths. “Just remember that’s my sister you’re talking about, and I don’t take too kindly to seeing her mistreated by _anybody_! Even you!” He paused. “And what’s so terribly wrong with your wife turning to God, anyway? I see no problem with that! A lot of other people are doing it, too--apparently they need it! If it helps her feel better, then I say let her. Stop giving her such a hard time, Richard!” 

Richard took another step forward, his fist raised over his head. Suddenly, he froze; dropping his hand to his side, he shook his head from side to side. “And where’s this--this God going to be if something terrible happens?” Richard kicked the trash can. “You know what happened to my sister, Ryan! If faith in God did any good, she’d still be alive now!” 

Without another word, he picked up his flight bag, turned, and walked off. Ryan watched him in silence, his lips pressed into a thin line. 

A few steps away, with a halt, Richard pivoted to face Ryan. “I forgot. We were going to meet Andrew and Monica at the coffee shop. You gonna meet us there?” Ryan nodded, purse-lipped. Richard marched off. 

Ryan watched the enraged man stalk out of the terminal. His stomach felt as if it were churning. _This is serious,_ he thought. _This is going to get real ugly soon!_ He shook his head. _If I could just talk some sense into that stubborn guy’s head!_ He slammed his fist against the wall, then, wincing, he picked up his flight bag with his throbbing hand. 

**__________________________**

Andrew and Monica sat at a booth in the coffee shop. As Monica took sips from a steaming cup of coffee, Andrew sat waiting for Richard and Ryan to show up, stirring some sugar into a cup of tea. The teaspoon clinked against the side of the cup as he swirled the sugar into the mixture. 

Andrew lowered his head to hide an amused smile. He couldn’t believe that Monica had had the nerve to use the Antichrist as a guinea pig for her latest drink combination. He wondered if he would have dared to try that. Then again, the way Monica described Puccini’s confused facial expression must have made the entire prank worthwhile. When he raised his head, Monica gazed at him with a quizzical expression. 

Chuckling, Andrew said, “Puccini must have been infuriated when he discovered what his drink tasted like.” Monica laughed with him, clasping her hands together on the table. 

A moment later, Richard joined them, followed by Ryan. “Sorry we’re late.” Dropping his flight bag on the floor, Richard perched on a chair as he spoke. “I had some personal business to take care of.” 

“Me, too.” Ryan sat down and placed his bag next to his right leg. A waitress took their orders and left. 

As Andrew leaned back, he noticed Ryan and Richard studiously ignoring each other. Apparently, they’d just had an argument--over Christina’s faith, no doubt. Maybe if he introduced a neutral subject--but what? He and Monica exchanged knowing glances. 

“Ryan, I’m pleased with the way you stood up to Puccini today,” Monica said softly. 

“Thanks.” Ryan smiled. “Puccini had no call to attempt to force Ben-Gurion Airport to let him land there. They shut down for a good reason.” 

“I agree.” Richard grimaced. Andrew sensed that he really didn’t want to agree with Ryan, but his own convictions as a pilot forced him to. “Landing there wouldn’t have been safe, or the airport wouldn’t have shut down.” 

Andrew shook his head. “Things have become quite serious.” He rested his fingers against the table’s smooth surface. 

Richard shrugged. “In what way? This is what Israel’s always wanted. Now the Jews can rebuild their temple.” He removed his cap to rub his hair, front to back. 

“True,” Monica agreed. “But with or without the Dome of the Rock, the Moslems do not want Israel to rebuild its temple. In fact, they don’t even want Israel to exist.” 

Andrew agreed. “They will be forced to let Israel rebuild the temple, Richard, but there will come a time when they will turn on Israel and try to destroy her. And when that happens--” He broke off and shook his head. 

The waitress brought their coffee on a tray. The group fell silent as she placed a cup in front of each customer. Raising her steaming cup, Monica shook her head. Again, Andrew exchanged glances with her. 

Minutes passed as the two humans and two angels sipped their coffee and tea. Silently, Andrew prayed that God would open Richard’s heart and give Andrew the words to reach the pilot. He added a second request that Monica would finish her assignment without any interference from Antonio Puccini. He took a sip of his gradually cooling tea, then leaned back. 

Leaning back, Richard wiped his mouth. “It’ll work out,” he said. “It always does.” He rose to his feet. Monica and Andrew watched him worriedly, as he stepped away from the booth while Ryan pressed his lips into a tight line. Suddenly, Richard froze. “Hey, what’s that?” 

The others approached him, then halted at the site of a TV set hanging from the corner of the ceiling. It was turned to CNN. A couple of bearded men were standing in front of the Wailing Wall, dressed what appeared to be the oddest, most worn-out garments. 

“Repent, you Jews, and turn to your Messiah!” one of them shouted. 

The other nodded agreement. “Jesus is your Messiah, not man!” He pointed his finger toward the TV camera imperiously. "'The _fool_ has said in his heart there is no God!'" 

Richard pressed his lips into a thin line of rage. Without a word, he stormed out of the coffee shop, pressing his clenched fists against his sides, shoes thudding on the polished wood floor. Clearly, he resented the insinuation that people like him were fools. Shaking his head, Ryan followed him out the door. At that moment, Tess joined the other two angels. For a moment, the three watched the two Israeli evangelists as they preached to a crowd in front of the TV cameras. 

“The two lampstands,” Andrew said softly. “They’re here. Moses and Elijah.” 

Monica nodded agreement--she knew what Andrew meant. The Book of Revelation predicted that, for the first half of the Tribulation, two men, referred to as “lampstands” in Revelation, would preach to Israel, and would have the power to shut up the heavens and turn water to blood. For several minutes, the two watched the two men preach to an angry crowd. 

Finally, Monica turned to Andrew and Tess. “How much time do we have left?” 

Andrew glanced at Tess and bit his lip. “If he doesn’t turn his heart over to God today or tomorrow, his life will be totally devastated, if not ended. He’s already lost Jessica. Now he’s in danger of--” He broke off, as deep sadness creased his face. “I had to escort two new believers Home during the night, while Richard slept,” he explained. “They were murdered by thieves who had broken into their homes. If Richard doesn’t repent, I’ll be escorting Christina, too, shortly after Richard returns home.” 

Tess shook her head. “Crime has increased greatly in just the last few days,” she said quietly. Monica nodded agreement--she, too, had noticed that. 

“There have been so many burglaries and murders just on Christina’s street alone,” Gloria said softly. “And two attempted break-ins at the Dalys' home. It's no wonder Richard forbade her to go out alone.” 

Andrew bit his lips. “It won’t be too long, now, before we angels of death will be on full-time status.” He shook his head. “We’ll be so busy escorting people Home, there won’t be time for casework.” 

Monica winced as she thought about what Andrew meant: the approaching judgments and the worldwide persecution of Tribulation believers. _Please, Father,_ she silently prayed, _get through to Richard before it’s too late!_

**__________________________**

Antonio Puccini’s shoes made soft thuds in the carpet as he followed the butler down the carpeted hallway of the Israeli prime minister’s home. Everything was falling into place, quite literally actually. He smirked at the truthfulness of that thought. “Falling into place” was certainly the best way to describe it. With the collapse of the Dome of the Rock, the Arabs would surely be more inclined to go for peace now. The 7-year treaty was on its way. 

The butler paused in the sitting room entrance. “President Puccini, sir,” he said, then stepped aside. 

Puccini paused just inside the entrance. There, in the sitting room, were the men he was to meet with. Israeli Prime Minister Jacob Barak, his host, sat on the large velvet-covered sofa. His blue eyes shot proverbial daggers at his other guest, Ishmael Mozenrath, chairman of the Palestinian Authority, who sat with folded arms on the love seat. Mozenrath's own green eyes were doing their imitation of lasers. The tension in the air was so thick Antonio thought he could cut it with a knife. Elijah Dayan leaned against the wall. 

Barak turned to the butler. “Have the cook send a snack for my guests.” Bowing, the butler left. Barak turned to Dayan. “Come have a seat, Elijah.” Chuckling, Dayan joined him on the couch. 

Puccini looked from the couch to love seat. He had to sit somewhere, but where? With Barak and Dayan, or with Mozenrath? 

After a moment of indecision, the Italian president strode toward the couch, where Barak sat. He perched near the edge of the couch that faced the love seat; the soft velvet mattress sagged under him as he leaned back and cleared his throat. 

“Well, gentlemen,” he said, “we have much to discuss and only a short time to do it.” Mozenrath nodded sullenly; Barak glared at him. 

“Indeed, we do,” Dayan agreed. 

“If I didn’t know better, I’d swear Mozenrath wanted to follow in the footsteps of his predecessor, Arafat, and send a few suicide bombers to our cities.” Barak pursed his lips as he spoke. 

“ _I’m_ not going to do that,” Mozenrath said. “But I can’t speak for my people. With our sacred dome gone, my people are up in arms. Who knows what they will do?” He shot a fierce glare at Barak as he spoke. His clenched till his knuckles turned white. 

Barak leaned toward him, pressing his lips into a tight line. “Your people are up in arms and you aren’t?” He fixed a fierce glare on Mozenrath. “The day you send _any_ suicide bombers to murder my people, or send any missiles or armies to destroy us, I will order the Samson option. And you know what that means. You and your people will be wiped out of existence. And so will every one of your Arab neighbors!” Mozenrath clenched his fists, as his face turned beet-red. 

Puccini raised his hands. “Gentlemen, calm down!” He turned to Mozenrath. “Now, now, Ishmael, surely you do not blame Jacob Barak, here, _or_ his foreign minister, Elijah Dayan, for the collapse of your dome. Not even the most devout Jew could have caused that underground river to make it collapse. That river had weakened the foundation for years. It was bound to happen, sooner or later.” 

Mozenrath nodded, sighing. “No,” he conceded. “Barak is not responsible for that.” He sagged against the love seat’s back. 

“I certainly am not!” Barak glared at him. 

“Of course he is not.” Puccini fixed his gaze on the new leader of the Palestinian Authority. He rested one hand on the soft velvet arm of the couch and the other in his lap. He and Dayan exchanged meaningful glances. “And really, when you think about it, is it worth starting a war of revenge over? Especially since it was an act of nature that destroyed the dome.” He paused. “Besides, the dome was not really located on the site of the temple anyway. The location of the Jewish temple’s Holy of Holies was 100 meters to the north.” 

The four men sat in silence for several minutes, pondering Puccini’s words. Finally, Puccini rose to his feet and turned to face the other three men. With his right hand, he patted the side of his pants as he gathered his thoughts. “Mozenrath, answer me this. When you Moslems kneel to pray, toward what place do you face?” 

Mozenrath sighed again. “Mecca.” He sat up straight once more, biting his lower lip. 

“Correct.” Puccini looked at him. “Mecca, not Jerusalem. Despite what I have heard Moslems say, the Temple Mount is not one of the more holy sites for Islam. Mecca is the most important for you and your people. And there are other holy sites far more important to your religion than Jerusalem has ever been. So tell me, now--” He paused as Mozenrath squirmed. “Tell me, is it worth killing millions of men, women, and children for a now-demolished dome that was not really so important to begin with?” 

Barak stared hard at Mozenrath as the latter squirmed. Dayan leaned back against the couch’s back to await Mozenrath’s answer. For a moment, no one spoke. 

Mozenrath sagged against the love seat. Shrugging, he gazed at Barak and then Dayan, a weary expression in his eyes. “No,” he finally agreed. “It is not.” 

Barak turned to Puccini. “Antonio, since you are president of the European Union, I appeal to you. His predecessor, Arafat, and his terrorists have slaughtered hundreds and thousands of my people from September, 2000, till now. All in the hope of destroying Israel and driving us out.” He fixed a stony gaze on the Palestinian Authority chairman. “We will never leave this land, Mozenrath, so you may as well give up any plans for continuing the Infitada.” Puccini nodded agreement. 

Mozenrath turned toward Puccini. “So what are you suggesting?” 

Puccini crossed his arms as he glanced at Dayan. “I am saying, let the Jews have their Temple Mount and their temple. Let them have East Jerusalem. Stop trying to drive all the Jews into the sea, because it will never work. The Jews will annihilate all their Arab neighbors before they will give up Israel. Let them have their little nation and their temple, and live in peace with them. You and your Arab neighbors have more than enough land, among you, to compensate you for the loss of that little plot of land the Jews own.” 

Mozenrath’s eyes narrowed. “Indeed? And what do I get in exchange, if I agree to this?” 

Puccini smiled. This was just the question he had expected. Leaning back, his crossed his fingers. “Your own state. A Palestinian state. In Gaza and the West Bank. Full recognition by the United Nations and the European Union. In short, the Oslo agreement will be carried out to the full.” He gazed at Barak. “I know that Barak and Dayan, here, will willingly let your people have those regions if you will let them live in peace.” 

Barak nodded agreement. “That’s all we’ve ever wanted. To live in peace and security. If you will accept that, we will accept you. Deal?” 

Mozenrath leaned against the back of the love seat for a long moment, thinking the proposal over. At last, he said, “I will discuss it with my people.” 

Puccini nodded, as a surge of pleasure shot through his chest. He knew that the Palestinians would agree to the proposal--he would personally see to that! And once the constant threat of war in the Middle East was finally brought to an end, the whole world would be at Puccini’s feet. He would bring peace to the whole world! The thought brought a broad smile to his face. As he thought over the ramifications, a servant brought a silver tray laden with food to the coffee table. 

Dayan shot a pleased look at Puccini. He and Puccini had worked behind the scenes for days, to bring all this development about. Barak didn’t know it, but it was Dayan, more than Barak himself, who had helped Puccini accomplish this previously impossible goal of making peace between Israel and the Palestinians. Now their hard work was paying off! 

_Barak does not know it, but I have big plans for his foreign minister, Dayan,_ Antonio thought. _Dayan will be very useful to me. And--for the present, anyway--so will the pope._

**__________________________**

Ryan perched behind the controls the next morning, as relaxed as he could be with a downright evil man who was sitting less than 100 yards behind him. Puccini had returned from the meeting looking like the cat that ate the canary; happiness and contentment had flooded his face. That was comforting to some point; at least his nerves weren’t on edge, so there was no imminent danger to Ryan. Sunlight poured through the windshield, flooding the cockpit; a few isolated clouds drifted eastward. 

As Ryan reached downward to rub his pants, he wondered, for the umpteenth time, what was going on around there. What went through Puccini’s head half the time? So many questions flooded Ryan’s head anymore, he couldn’t even begin to ask them all. Why had all those people disappeared, including his niece? Where had they gone? Was it just a coincidence that Puccini had just happened to begin his ascent to power right after the most cataclysmic disaster to ever befall Planet Earth? If Puccini’s theory was right, when had all the radiation begun building up anyway? 

Slumping forward, Ryan rested his face in his hands and bit his lower lip. So many questions! “And only God knows who has all the answers,” he mumbled to himself. 

He hadn’t expected a response, so when a lightly accented voice said, “No, Ryan,” he shot his head upward and practically leaped out of his chair. Monica’s voice continued speaking from behind him. “Only _God_ has all the answers.” 

“Monica!” Ryan exclaimed, switching the plane onto auto-pilot and twisting his upper body to face the senior flight attendant. Monica was standing in the doorway, dressed in her uniform and wearing her luxuriant brown hair in the required bun. “You scared me!” 

“I’m sorry,” Monica said gently. “But you were wrong. God doesn’t know who has all the answers...God _is_ the One Who knows all the answers.” 

“Monica,” Ryan said, “that was an...expression...like...a figure of speech. I didn't mean it literally.” 

“But I do,” responded Monica calmly, stepping inside the cockpit. As she did, everything seemed to happen at once. The door swung shut behind her of its own accord, and, in less time than it took to blink, Monica’s appearance completely changed. Her hair fell in waves around her shoulders. Her uniform disappeared, to be replaced by a flowing white gown. A glow that seemed to come from somewhere behind, or even inside her, illumined her body. Ryan gaped at her--what was this?? This couldn’t be happening--could it? 

“Wh--what...” he stammered, “what's happening?” 

“Don't be afraid,” Monica said softly. “I'm an angel.” 

Ryan's head spun. This was too much! As he slumped backward in his seat, he blinked his eyes twice. Was he going mad? 

Ryan shook his head violently, in an effort to clear it. Maybe he’d been living in a dream for days; maybe he’d gotten hit on the head on the morning of the disappearances, and he’d since been living in some insane dream. _No,_ he thought, _that’s impossible--my subconscious could never have come up with half the stuff I’ve been going through!_

Maybe Richard had pushed him back at the airport, and he'd hit his head and was dreaming. Or maybe he had fallen asleep at the controls and was dreaming. Or worse yet, had died! The last was the scariest, yet most reasonable possibility. Monica gazed down at him with a warm smile on her lips and an otherworldly light shining in her eyes. 

“An...an...an _angel_?!” was all Ryan could say. 

“Yes,” responded Monica. “An angel. Sent by God to give you a message. To tell you the truth.” 

Ryan couldn't believe it! This was real--Monica was really an angel! 

"And what _is_ the truth?" Ryan had no idea how he managed to keep his voice sounding so neutral. Inside his heart was pounding and his mind was swimming. The mattress creaked underneath him as he swiveled his chair to face her. 

“The truth is that God loves you, Ryan Whittaker.” Monica clasped her hands in front of her waist. "And when millions of people disappeared, He wasn’t judging or punishing anyone. He was bringing his children Home, to spare them what’s about to happen. He evacuated every person who had come to Him prior to then, both dead and alive, and every baby and small child--He gave them new bodies so they could live in Heaven without dying. But Ryan, it isn’t too late for you. It’s too late to participate in the Rapture, but it’s not too late to get right with God. God loves you too much not to give you another chance.” 

Ryan took a deep breath as he thought about what Monica had just said. “You mean, it’s not too late for me to--to accept Him?” 

“No.” Approaching Ryan, Monica touched his shoulder. “In fact, that was another reason God conducted this mass evacuation. Not only to spare His church, but also to get the attention of the rest of the people. That includes your brother-in-law, Richard. And your sister, Christina. And you.” She squeezed his shoulder as she spoke. 

Ryan stared at her for a long moment. If God had meant to get his attention, He had certainly succeeded! But why? Why would God go to such an extreme measure to do this? 

At last, with a sigh, Ryan nodded. “All right, He’s got it. What does God want me to do?” 

“Accept His love. His gift.” Monica paused. “The gift of salvation He offers you. Live in faith--the same faith your sister now has. And heed His warning.” 

“Warning?” Ryan stared at Monica. 

“Yes.” Sadness creased Monica’s face as she dropped her hands to her sides. “The man you work for is what the Bible calls the Antichrist. He will rule a one-world government, and both he and a man the Bible calls the False Prophet will be used by Satan to steal people’s souls.” She paused. “Elijah Dayan is the False Prophet.” 

Ryan’s shoes thudded as he leaped to his feet, horror surging in his heart. This explained everything he’d feared about Puccini. In agreeing to work for the man, he’d walked right into the trap of the devil himself! For a long moment, he stared at the cockpit door. 

“If that’s true, I’ve got to quit my job! Now!” 

“No.” Monica laid a hand on his arm. “Right now, you are where God wants you. He can use you in your proximity to Antonio Puccini, if you’ll let Him. With your inside knowledge, you’ll be able to help Richard and Christina. And Kristen.” 

_Richard, and Christina? Are they in danger?_ He gulped. _And Kristen--if anything happens to Kristen, I’ll--!_

Ryan took a deep, shuddering breath. He rubbed his forehead with his thumb and index finger. These panicky thoughts were getting him nowhere--he had to stay calm and rational. “All right.” He paused. “What does God want me to do?” 

“First of all, He wanted you to know who you’re working for, so you won’t be deceived, yourself.” Monica paused. “With the help of Dayan, Puccini will successfully deceive the whole world until it worships him. There will come a time when the devil himself will indwell him. Even now, Satan is energizing him and giving him power. Later on, he will completely take over Puccini's personality." Ryan shuddered at the thought. 

"But before that time comes--" Monica frowned. "--there will be a worldwide religion, occultic in nature and purpose. The new pope will be its leader. It will claim to be all-inclusive of every religion except one." 

"Christianity," Ryan guessed. "The new religion will reject it as being intolerant." 

The Irish-tongued angel nodded. "Yes. It will have much influence, and it will persecute the Tribulation believers. Until Puccini has it destroyed, shortly before the midpoint of the Tribulation." 

Monica paused. As Ryan waited, sorrow welled in the angel’s eyes. “Puccini and Dayan then will force the whole world to wear what the Book of Revelation calls a mark--the Mark of the Beast. Without that mark, people will not be able to buy, sell, or hold jobs. Furthermore, there’ll come a time when those who refuse that mark will be executed.” Ryan winced at the thought. 

She paused again. “Whatever happens, Ryan--” She swallowed. “--never, _never_ accept that mark. It will be a computer implant, injected under the skin--already the technology is in place to set that up. When that day comes, those who accept it will be forced to worship Puccini as God, and to reject all other gods--including the true one. Those who do can never enter Heaven. They will be separated from God for eternity. In the Lake of Fire. All who die without accepting the true God will suffer the same fate.” Deep sadness etched her face as she spoke. A chill flooded Ryan’s soul at the prospect. 

Ryan swallowed. "Uh, tell me, how will Puccini be able to force everyone to accept the implant if they want to buy or sell?" His eyes widened as recent news slammed into his brain. "I remember now--lately, our governments have been talking about moving to a cashless technology! All buying and selling will be done by computer." He gulped. "And Puccini will control the switch, so to speak." Monica nodded. "And if the whole world moves to one currency--the Euro--that will make Puccini's plot much easier to carry out." 

"Yes." Monica nodded agreement. "It will." She bit her lip. "And already, the people are being primed to accept the mark. With the rash of child kidnappings in recent months, even before the Rapture--and now, the disappearances of millions of people--people are clamoring, even now, for some way to identify those who are left. And to keep children safe, by developing a way to track them." 

"I know. I've heard." Taking a deep breath, Ryan nodded. “I won’t accept the implant.” He swallowed. “You have my word.” 

“That’s good.“ Monica smiled approvingly. “And Ryan, God also wants you to know that the next seven years will be the most devastating and cataclysmic the world has ever known and will ever know again. Mankind will be brought to the point of utter annihilation. When that happens, Jesus, the Son of God, will return to this planet and set up His kingdom. Everyone who accepted the implant will die, as will Puccini himself. Only those believers who survive to see His coming will enter the kingdom.” Ryan bit his lower lip as he listened. 

“And those believers who survive the seven-year Tribulation will enter the Kingdom as mortal people.” Monica paused. “They will marry, have children, and hold down jobs or start businesses. All the believers who die during the Tribulation will be resurrected and given brand-new bodies. And those believers who were caught up in the Rapture will return with Jesus to earth. Including Jessica. And your mother, who died on 9-11.” 

Ryan nodded, as everything she had just told him sank into him. “You’re saying we may very well die.” He paused. “And that the only way we can enter Heaven is to reject the implant, even though it may cost us our lives.” His stomach tightened at the prospect. 

“To reject the implant and to accept the true God.” Monica nodded. “If that happens, Ryan, you will enter the Father’s presence, where there is no suffering and no Tribulation. If you do survive--and a minority of the people who come to faith _will_ , I promise you--you will go on to live as a mortal believer for the next thousand years. Then, at the end of that period, you, too, will receive a new body, one that can never die. You will live for eternity in a beautiful city on a brand-new earth in a brand-new heaven, in the presence of God for all time.” 

Ryan nodded, as he silently accepted her words. For a moment, he stared at the windshield as he pondered what she had told him. Outside, a dove flew past the cockpit. 

He turned to face her. “Thank you, Monica. You have helped me. I will do whatever I can to oppose Puccini, and to help Richard and Christina. Tell me--” He paused. “I know that Christina has accepted God, but what about Richard?” He frowned. Richard, he knew, would be a most difficult nut to crack. 

“God is still working on him.” Monica smiled. “Angels have surrounded you and your sister and brother-in-law since the recent events started. Don’t worry, Ryan, but pray. Pray very hard for Richard. And for Christina.” 

“I will.” Ryan nodded. “I certainly will. Thanks again.” He smiled in gratitude, as he bowed his head to pray silently. Peace flooded his heart, followed by a sensation of joy. When he lifted his head, Monica had disappeared. 

**__________________________**

Richard walked through his front door and let out a long sigh. Christina wasn’t in the front room waiting for him as she normally was. He tried to dismiss it, but he felt a twinge of pain. He missed the days when she’d greet him eagerly every time he returned from a flight. That had been one of the few things in life he could depend on: Christina’s warm smile and, more recently, his baby’s joyous squeals. Now they both were gone. With a sigh, he gave the door a push--it swung till it clicked. 

Of course, what more could he expect? He’d been horrible to her recently; he’d even threatened to leave her, the day before! It was not as if he had any right to expect her to want to greet him. He should have expected this icy silence, but it still hurt to be in the midst of it. _As long as she hasn’t left the house,_ he thought. _I'm not going to have her getting her fool self killed._

As Richard leaned against the door, scanning the empty living room, he tried to justify the situation to himself. It wasn’t his fault. If Christina hadn’t gotten so involved in this whole stupid religion thing, then they wouldn’t have argued. It was her fault they were having this fight. But still...he _should_ be grateful that Christina had found a way to keep her sanity. There had been times Richard had seriously doubted whether he’d be able to do that himself. 

Richard sighed. “I’ve got to find her,” he told himself. “Got to try to make things right.” He glanced down at his flight bag and approached the hall entrance. His shoes thudded down the carpeted hallway. 

He trudged up the stairs to the second floor, then approached the bedroom door. He found Christina gazing out the window, her back to him. “I’m home,” he said. He removed his cap as he spoke. 

Christina didn’t turn around. “I know.” Her voice sounded dull and flat. 

Pushing his cap upward, Richard shook his head. This was going to be more difficult than he’d expected. With a weary sigh, he set down his flight bag, removed his jacket, and tossed it on the bed. “Well, this has been a most interesting flight,” he said. “We had to reroute to Tel Aviv instead of Jerusalem.” He paused, but Christina did not respond. “The Dome of the Rock collapsed yesterday. Seems a river running underneath it weakened its foundations.” 

Slowly, Christina turned around. “I know. Gloria told me.” Reaching up, she twisted strands of hair around her index fingers. 

Richard nodded. “Did you see it on the news?” He rubbed his hair as he spoke. 

Christina inclined her head. “Gloria and I were glued to the TV all afternoon yesterday.” She paused. “I’m glad you weren’t hurt, Richard.” 

Richard leaned against the wall. “Thanks.” 

Christina picked up Richard’s jacket and hung it in the closet. “The Jews will be able to rebuild their temple now, won’t they? Gloria and I have been expecting that.” 

Richard stared at her. “And why’s that?” _No! Not that religious garbage,_ he wanted to shriek. _Anything but that!_ As Christina turned to face him, the look on her face confirmed his fears. 

**__________________________**

Back in Rome, Puccini growled in frustration. For once, Lucifer and his demons weren’t coming through for him! All Antonio wanted were some details of Monica’s assignment, but no matter what he did, or how urgently he asked, his master would not, or could not, respond. Not one thing had Lucifer told him about whom Monica had been assigned to, or why. Without that knowledge, Puccini was powerless to frustrate Monica‘s assignment. 

_It must be that he cannot._ Grinding his teeth, Puccini leaned back in his desk to consider the matter. _Because if he could tell me, he would. He hates the loyal angels as much as I do--God always sends them to frustrate Lucifer! And Monica is no exception. But why is he being silent? Does he not know? Or has God prevented him from telling me? If so, why?_

Leaning forward, he propped his fingers together. _Could someone be praying? But who? All the Christians have been evacuated from this planet! Who could be left_ to _pray?_

A knock on the door startled him. “Just a minute,” he called. 

With a sigh, he opened the bottom drawer and swept the items into it. Slamming the drawer hard, he cursed. This would have to wait till another time. At that moment, he had work to do, and he had better get to it. He leaned back in his chair and said, “Come in.” Kristen entered the room to give him a sheaf of papers. 

**__________________________**

Minutes later, Kristen cradled the phone next to her ear. A pencil dangled in her right hand as she sat leaning against her desk. “Yes, I believe he'll be free then...Yes, Chairman Mozenrath, I've got you in for as soon as possible.” She paused to listen to his comments. “I'm afraid that would require far too much re-arranging…Yes, yes, you've been given priority. I will inform President Puccini of the date and time, and if it is not appropriate for him…” 

The infuriated response of Mozenrath set her temper aflame. “Don't yell at me; I'm only letting you know that you’re not the only person who’s affected by this! As far as I can see on a professional level of meetings he’s free during that time, but whether he has any personal commitments in that time slot is not to my knowledge, nor my concern!” She pressed her palm against the desk’s smooth surface and pursed her lips. “I will ask him about the recommended time and contact you if there’s a better one.” Finally, the conversation was wrapping up! 

After a few more moments of conversation, Kristen hung up the phone. Ishmael Mozenrath was the most difficult man she’d ever talked to in her life! She understood why the man would be on edge--what had happened the day before must have changed his life forever, but that was no excuse to be so impossible to get along with! Was it her fault that stupid dome had collapsed? She glared at the receiver for a long moment. 

The chair screeched as she pushed it from her desk. As she rose to her feet and walked away, Kristen reluctantly admitted she shared part of the blame for the conversation being so...frustrating. She wouldn’t have lost her temper under normal circumstances, but these was hardly normal. Puccini had been back in his office for an hour and she had yet to hear from Ryan. She had been going crazy with nearly every emotion in the book since he and Puccini had arrived back from their Israel trip that morning, and her feelings had churned ever since. 

Kristen got off the elevator and headed for her boss’s office. Her mind was in turmoil. With the way traffic was, Ryan might have gotten into a car accident, or maybe something had happened in Jerusalem that made him not want to contact her. She didn’t want to consider either possibility, so she silently cursed herself for even letting her mind go there. _Ryan is OK!_ she silently scolded herself. Ryan cared for her, and he would call her as soon as he could. 

Seconds later, she paused in Puccini’s doorway. She barely managed to pull herself into her usual professionalism before facing him. Sunshine poured into his office through the window behind his desk, illuminating every object. 

As he looked up at her, she spoke quickly. “Antonio, Chairman Mozenrath was on the phone. He wants to meet with you here, Wednesday morning at nine. Will you be free at that time?” 

“I believe I will be. Hold on.” He picked up his desk calendar. 

As Puccini flipped through its pages, Kristen leaned against the doorjamb and gazed at the wall behind her employer. A smell permeated the room. That smell…it was familiar--where had she smelled it before? She suppressed a gasp. _Marijuana!_

She didn't want to believe that. She hadn’t smelled that since her older brother had tried it when they were in high school--surely, she was mistaken! But if she wasn’t, what was the smell of marijuana doing in her boss’s office? 

Her mind reeled. Maybe she was mistaken, maybe...her mind barely could process its own thoughts. Without warning, Puccini rose to his feet and brushed past her in the doorway without a word. Where was he going? It didn't matter. All that mattered was that she might have just stumbled onto the biggest secret of the world that day. She had to know for sure! 

Her mind almost completely shut down; she didn't bother to reason out her actions and the possible consequences, nor did she even give herself time to ponder them. She swiftly approached the desk and, resting her left hand on the desk’s smooth surface, opened the top drawer with her right hand. Nothing of importance, just papers, folders, and a few other little odds and ends. She hunted through every drawer, rummaging through its contents to see if there was any signs of marijuana. Nothing. 

Finally, as she crouched on the floor, she reached the bottom drawer. She had begun to believe the smell had been a fluke. Likely as not, it was just one of those crazy things...as when you smell chocolate for no reason as you’re walking down the hallway. She felt much more confident opening that last drawer, but when she gazed at its contents, she felt her confidence being ripped away from her. 

Her face paled, and she could only stare in shock at the jumbled items in the bottom drawer. This was worse, much worse, than anything she’d ever expected! Choking back a scream, she slammed the drawer shut and rushed from the room. _I’ve got to find Ryan! I’ve just got to tell him!_


	12. Chapter 11

Ryan reclined at his living room desk, resting his right hand on the right page of his Bible. He had purchased it that afternoon and had been reading it for hours--mostly the Book of Revelation. At the suggestion of Monica, he had also read the books of Daniel, Zechariah, Joel, and certain chapters in Isaiah, Matthew, Mark, Luke, 1st Corinthians, and 1st and 2nd Thessalonians. 

_It’s all coming true,_ he thought. _Or about to! The Rapture’s already happened, and the Tribulation’s about to start, I can see._ He took a deep breath. _It’s amazing how much of the Bible consists of prophecy! I never would have believed it._

Ryan shook his head as he rested one hand on the desk’s smooth surface and reached down with the other to scratch his thigh. It was scary to know all these terrible things were going to happen soon. Everything was so real, so urgent. He’d been praying and studying since he got back from Israel. He couldn’t believe how good it felt to be aware of God's everlasting love. Deep joy sprang out from--where, he didn't know. 

Ryan ran a yellow highlighter over yet another Bible passage. When the ink didn’t come out as clearly as before, he chuckled slightly as he looked at the felt tip. He should have known he’d run out of ink sooner or later. 

Before he could get up to replace the highlighter, someone pounded on his door. Ryan jumped. Whoever it was had to be in an awfully big hurry to see him, judging from the pounding. 

Ryan made his way to the door. When he opened it, Kristen stood there. Her face was pale, and she leaned against the doorframe for support. Dozens of thoughts and emotions piled in his brain at once. 

He’d forgotten to call her! She must be so worried! Yet what he saw before him went beyond worry. As she leaned against the doorframe, panting, terror etched her eyes. At that same moment, he realized just how his newfound faith would affect his relationship with Kristen. 

He hurriedly shoved that thought from his mind. “Kristen! Are you all right?” 

Kristen nodded. “Physically.” Her voice shook. 

Ryan gently led her inside. _Whatever could have happened to upset her so?_ he wondered. 

“What's wrong?” he asked gently, setting her down on the couch. The mattress sagged underneath him as he sat down beside her. 

Kristen stared at him for a moment. Her normally confident bluish-gray eyes were wide and fearful. Ryan had never seen her like this before. He tensed, wondering what could have happened that would do this to her. 

Her fear started rubbing off on Ryan. Chills ran down the length of his spine. Something was wrong, very wrong. She shifted her gaze away from him and began studying her watch, twisting it in circles around her wrist. 

For a long moment, Ryan wondered if she was upset at him for not calling, but such irritation wouldn’t produce this kind of fear, would it? Then, without warning, Kristen burst into tears. 

Ryan put his arms around her. “Shh,” he said softly. “It’s all right, Kristen; whatever it is, it’s gonna be O.K.” 

Her sobs didn't subside or stop. Ryan gently rocked her back and forth, praying silently that his attempts at comforting her would work. Kristen buried her face in his shoulder, weeping convulsively. 

“Ryan,” she finally managed to say though her tears as she pulled away, wiping her eyes. “I found out something today...something important...and it’s just so scary...so awful...” 

As her voice broke, Ryan's mind reeled. What had happened to her? What had she found out? Who had done this to her? At that last thought, he felt his temper rise. Someone was responsible for her fear! He struggled to keep from letting his sudden anger show. 

She was so upset she didn't seem to notice. “Did you know...” she began, “...that our boss...” She paused for a moment. “...worships Satan?” She stared down at her lap as she spoke. 

Ryan was alarmed. He’d learned that after becoming a believer. Discovering this as a vulnerable unbeliever had to have devastated her. 

Suddenly, he realized something. Discovering this as an unbeliever--of course! Kristen was an unbeliever! Old doubts rose to the surface. How had she found out, anyway? Puccini wouldn’t have told her unless he had taken her into his confidence... 

That was highly unlikely, he knew--her tumult of emotions made it clear that she'd found out by accident. Yet the thought rang in his mind. Kristen was an unbeliever! He needed to talk to her, tell her what he knew. But right now, she needed to talk to him. 

“What?” he asked, the shock in his voice real. “How do you...what makes you...how did...” Ryan started at least three sentences, finishing none of them. 

Kristen took a deep, shuddering breath. “I smelled marijuana in Puccini’s office, and after he left I started looking through his desk. I thought I might be able to find evidence of drug use. I’m not sure what I would have done if that was all I found...and I’m still not sure what I’m gonna do now.” 

Ryan understood, and he couldn't put her through having to explain what happened next. “And you found some items that hinted at Satan worship.” 

“Hinted?” exclaimed Kristen. “Ryan, there was a complete book of occultic practices in there! An actual how-to book on worshipping the devil! And some other objects I can’t describe to you, but the sight of that book clinched it for me.” She took a deep, shuddering breath and leaned her elbow on the couch’s left arm. With her right hand, she wiped her eyes. Ryan handed her a Kleenex; she nodded her thanks and dabbed her eyes. 

As Kristen blew her nose, Ryan sat there, unsure what to say. He’d been expecting something like this, ever since his discussion with Monica on the plane. There would come a time, he knew, when Puccini would be indwelt by Satan, so it stood to reason that the man already worshiped the being. Ryan bit his lip--it was past time he told Kristen the truth. The whole truth. Silently, he prayed for guidance as to how to begin. The mattress sagged anew as he shifted position to face his colleague. 

“Kristen,” he began, “there's something we have to talk about.” 

**______________________________________**

Richard tossed his pilot cap on the bed. “That’s not all.” He took a deep breath. “There’s a couple of nuts preaching on the Temple Mount. They started just the other day, while we were in Israel.” He shook his head. 

Christina nodded. “I’ve been expecting that.” She gazed down at the bed as she spoke, twisting strands of hair around her index finger. 

“And why is that?” Richard whirled to face her. “And _don’t_ give me that religious garbage again!” 

Narrowing her eyes, Christina pursed her lips and said nothing. She turned to face the window once more. 

“I said, _why_ is that?” Richard rushed toward her and grabbed her shoulders. He pivoted her to face him. “I asked you a question, Christina!” 

Christina shrugged. “Yes, but you won’t like my answer.” 

Richard turned her loose. “I was right. It’s that religious garbage again. You’re right, I _won’t_ like your answer. I won’t ask you again.” His voice was ice-cold. 

Without a word, Christina trudged out of the bedroom and down the stairs. Richard followed her, rage consuming his heart once more. This was too much! 

“Christina, I’ve had it.” As he clenched his fists, he forced himself to keep his voice low instead of shouting. “You’ve become a religious fanatic, and I can’t stand it!” He shook her by the shoulders. “I won’t have any more of this! You hear me? I will not!” 

“Stop it!” Christina covered her ears with her hands and scrooged her eyes shut. “I can’t stand it either, the way you constantly bully me and hassle me about my new faith! I’m _not_ going to give it up, Richard, so please, just _stop_! I mean it!” 

Richard raised his fist to strike her; she took a step backward and covered her face. “You-- _you--_!” Despite his efforts, he started shouting. “You’re ruining our marriage with this--this--fanaticism! This worthless belief in a mythical God! I mean it, I’m not going to have it, Christina!” 

Christina glared at him, her face beet-red. “Answer me this, Richard!” She took a deep breath, clenching and unclenching her fists. “If God is mythological, then how do you account for the fact that the prophecies in the Bible have just happened to come true?” She took another deep breath. “They have, you know! _Every_ single one!” 

Richard grabbed a newspaper and hurled it against the wall. Christina flinched as it slid to the floor. “Christina Daly, if you believe that, then those religious nuts have truly brainwashed you.” He seethed with rage. “You want our marriage to last, you’d better reconsider that stuff they fed you with, _fast_!” 

Christina took two steps toward him, her eyes narrowed into tiny slits. “Listen to me, Richard. If you truly loved me as you said you did, you wouldn’t give me such a hard time about my new faith. It’s the only thing that’s getting me through this devastating time, so just shut up about it! I won’t talk to you about God and the Bible if you don’t want, but don’t tell me not to believe anymore! Because I won’t.” 

Richard ground his teeth. “Very well. I’ll stop.” He took a deep breath as he glared at her. “This is it--our marriage is over! I’m going to pack my bags right now, and move out. You want to go out by yourself, be my guest--see if I care!” He kicked the couch. “You’ll be hearing from my lawyer this week.” He turned and stormed out of the room. 

**______________________________________**

Kristen stared at Ryan. What did they need to talk about? Her mind swam with possibilities and questions. Yet she only let her eyes betray her confusion. She was the picture of calm in every other way. She pressed one hand on top of the other and took a deep breath. Ryan bit his lower lip and shifted position once more, clearly agitated. 

“What about?” She forced herself to ask the question calmly, although her mind was whirring so fast she could barely get the words out of her mouth. Now was the time to think rationally, not give into emotion. “What do you need to tell me?” She tilted her head as she spoke. 

Ryan took a deep breath, and began talking. “It’s this, Kristen. I’ve...well...I’ve mistrusted Puccini for quite some time. I’ve even gotten a hint or two that he’s downright evil. But I didn’t expect anything like this...until today.” He leaned against the back of the chair and pressed his fingers against the mattress underneath. “When we were returning from Israel.” 

Kristen was confused. He’d suddenly started expecting to find out that his boss was a Satan-worshipper today? “Until today?” she echoed, hating doing it. She hated having to turn into a parrot in the middle of a fact-finding tour. 

Ryan nodded. “You see...today, enroute from Israel, I learned the truth about Puccini. Just as you did, but not in such a direct way.” 

Ryan was trying to explain, Kristen could see that. But he wasn't doing a very good job. Kristen could normally find something intelligent to say during every conversation, but she was lost with a capital L, so all she could think so say was, “Huh?” She gazed at him with a quizzical expression. 

Ryan breathed a long sigh. “I learned that Puccini...” Tapping her hand on her lap, Kristen gave him an impatient look. “...is the Antichrist prophesied in the Bible.” 

Now some things made sense, but other things were even more confusing. Her mom had always spouted off words like “Antichrist” and “end-times prophecy,” but then her mom had always been the religious type. And somehow she just couldn't see Ryan as being the religious type. 

“Whoa, whoa, whoa!” Kristen held her hand up. “Hold on. Last people I heard talking like that were the ones who disappeared, and the few religious nuts popping up here and there.” 

Ryan smiled slightly. “Then I guess you haven’t heard about those guys at the Wailing Wall,” he said. 

Kristen nodded. She’d heard of them--they’d suddenly appeared out of nowhere, the other day, preaching like crazy. Speaking out against Puccini and proclaiming Jesus Christ as the long-awaited Jewish Messiah. “I’ve heard of them,” she said. “Like I said, the religious nuts popping up here and there. I saw them on the news channel yesterday.” 

Ryan shook his head; he was smiling, but his eyes were sad. Gazing down at his lap, he said, “Let's put it this way. Just today, I started agreeing wholeheartedly with those two at the wall.” 

Kristen's eyes widened. No way! Ryan had turned into a religious nut right under her nose. Unbelievable! Then again, if those kooks at the wall were right about one thing, then maybe they were right about more than one thing and just didn't know when it was time to shut up. 

“Ryan.” Her voice shook as she gaped at him. “Are you serious?” 

Ryan nodded solemnly. “Yes,” he said softly. “Deathly serious.” He looked straight into her eyes. 

Kristen shuddered. Ryan always avoided making references to death whenever possible. The fact that he willingly mentioned it now proved just how real this was to him. “Wow,” was all she could say. “Please tell me--how did you learn of this?” 

Ryan paused. “An angel paid me a visit today.” He swallowed. “Monica, my senior flight attendant, is an angel of God. She told me everything.” 

_“What??!”_ Kristen gaped at him. "Are you kidding me?" 

"No, I'm not. She really is an angel." 

Kristen shook her head, disbelief etched on her face. Ryan sighed. For a long moment, he gazed at her as compassion welled up in him. “Kristen, listen to me. I know this is a lot for you to swallow, but let’s think about this rationally for just a moment here. Tell me, was there anyone you know personally; someone who was over the age of 10 and not--as you put it--a religious nut, that disappeared?” 

The mattress sagged and creaked underneath, as Kristen shifted position so as to look away from Ryan. For a long moment, she pondered that. It was true. Of course, in some ways his explanation could line up with the whole alien abduction theory, but yet it was just too coincidental. “I get your point,” she said. “So basically there’s too much stuff they’re saying that’s proven correct for anything else to be right.” 

“Exactly,” Ryan said. “And if the Christians were right about what was going to happen to them...” His voice trailed off. 

Kristen finished for him. “Then their doctrine was probably correct too,” she said softly. She was beginning to get into this idea. And as scary as it was that her boss was probably the Antichrist, at least now she had a support system to fall back on now. “And you’re saying that an angel told you this.” 

“Right.” Ryan nodded. “So now, all we have to do is research the Christian doctrine, and we’ll know exactly what's right about this whole thing. That’s what I’ve been doing since I got back. I bought a Bible at one of the local bookstores when we got back from our trip. I could take you to buy one, if you’d like, then we could study it together.” 

“O.K.,” Kristen said. “Let’s find a bookstore so I can get one, then let’s get started.” 

**______________________________________**

As an enraged Richard stomped upstairs, Christina dissolved into a fit of sobs. She rushed out the front door and stumbled down the porch steps. The sunlight flooded into her eyes, hurting them, so she scrooged them shut. Leaning her forehead against a towering oak tree, she silently begged God to do something, fast. 

“Please, God, save our marriage!” she whispered, amidst choked sobs. “Please, God, if You really love me as You say You do, don’t let Richard do this!” Convulsive sobs forced their way out of her throat, choking back the rest of what she had intended to pray. She banged her forehead against the tree trunk’s rough bark. 

Behind her, Gloria and Andrew stood side by side. Andrew clenched Gloria’s hand and silently prayed. _Please, God, don’t take Christina,_ he begged. _Please save her life and her marriage!_ He gazed at the cloudless sky beseechingly. Next to him, Gloria bit her lower lip. 

As the angel of death interceded for Christina and Richard in prayer, a man wearing a leather jacket sneaked up behind Christina, a revolver in his hand. He grabbed her, shoving the revolver into the back of her shoulder. Christina screamed in terror as the man spun her around.


	13. Chapter 12

Richard was shoving all his clothes into a suitcase. Rage surged in his heart. He couldn’t take one more day of this! If Christina wanted to be a religious freak, fine! Let her! He would have no part of it! He didn't even bother to fold his clothes as he stuffed them in. No way! He wasn't going to stay here a moment... 

A piercing scream from outside filled his mind. _Christina!_ his mind exclaimed. All anger melted away as he charged down the stairs. Christina! She’d gone outside! It was dangerous out there, really dangerous, and he’d just let his wife go out there all alone! 

His only thoughts were for Christina's safety. His feet barely touched the floor as he crossed the living room and rushed toward the front door. His momentum nearly ripped the door off its hinges as he threw it open, not even slowing. "Christina!" he hollered. 

No sooner did he leap through the front door onto the porch than he saw the problem. Christina was being pinned against a tree by a man with a gun! 

**___________________________________**

Christina stared into the cold green eyes of the mugger. His eyes were as cold as steel as he glared at her. His hair was brown and wavy, and he wore a black leather jacket. The gun felt cold on her forehead, as he pressed it against her, forcing the back of her head against the trunk’s rough bark. 

“No more noise,” he hissed. “Or I'll kill you.” He squeezed her upper arm so tightly she winced in pain. 

Christina bit her lip. O.K., so that scream had been a mistake. The look in the man’s eyes told her that he fully intended to murder her anyway. Unless God saved her, she was as good as dead. She wasn’t sure what to do, so she did the first thing that came to her mind. She prayed silently. 

_Dear God, save me!_

**___________________________________**

Richard froze. Christina was in danger! Whoever that man was, he intended to kill her! "Not again," he whispered. "Not again!" He gulped. 

_I’ve got to do something, fast! Or she’s going to die!_ He gulped. The only woman he’d ever loved was going to be murdered if he didn’t do something immediately. _I’ve got to save her! If I don’t--!_ He gulped. He couldn’t bear for Christina to suffer the same fate as Nicole. 

But what could he do? The guy had a gun! Any move on Richard’s part could be disastrous. He couldn’t think; his mind clicked into slow motion. He cursed silently as the sunlight forced him to squint. If only the sunshine wasn’t so bright! 

A guttural laugh escaped from the man’s throat. “This your wife?” He cocked his revolver as he spoke. “Well, she’s going to die--right now!” Christina bit her lip as he pressed the revolver against her temple. 

Richard dropped to his knees on the sidewalk, clutching the gate with one hand. “Dear God,” he whispered, his eyes filling with tears of fear. “Oh, God, please, please, save her! Help her!” He couldn’t look away, he couldn't even blink. He was completely paralyzed with terror. All he could do was stare and whisper, “Oh, God, help her; dear God, please help her. Please save her life! Don't let her die!” 

Andrew and Gloria smiled and nodded; they had overheard Richard’s whispered prayer. In that instant, they received their instructions from the Father. They exchanged glances: now was the time for action. 

Gloria stepped forward, now visible to the human eye. For less than a second she glanced back at Andrew, who said softly, “I'll step in if you need me.” She nodded, then turned back to face the scene before her. 

“Stop!” she shouted. 

The startled mugger whirled toward Gloria. Richard slumped against the gate with relief. Someone had stopped the would-be killer! Christina was, at least temporarily, safe. 

Suddenly, his mind registered the rest of what was happening. It was Christina’s new friend, Gloria! And the man with the gun was pointing the gun straight at her. “Oh yeah?!” he sneered. “And who’s gonna make me?” A smirk appeared in his narrow green eyes. 

Gloria took a step forward. Richard gripped the paint-covered porch column; a paint chip flicked onto his fingers. He still couldn’t move--dare he move? What would he do if he did? For now, all he could do was stand there, watching in horror as his wife’s closest friend tried to play heroine. _Gloria--be careful! That man has a gun!_ he wanted to shout. 

The mugger raised his gun and fired two shots. Richard couldn’t help it. He cried out, he didn’t think, all he knew was that Gloria had been trying to save his wife...and...and...the rest of the thought didn’t process, because what he saw was too unbelievable to be true. 

For some odd reason, Christina wasn’t afraid. She knew she should be, but from the second she had started praying, an overwhelming peace had soothed and calmed her. If it was her time to go, God would give her the strength to go through it. That peace had become stronger when Gloria had arrived. Christina had flinched at the gunshot, but she had known it wouldn’t hurt Gloria. Another emotion registered in her mind as she saw what was happening now. 

Gloria stood there, the same expression on her face as before. But she had been joined by Andrew. A glowing light now illuminated them both. As the mugger gaped at them, the hand holding the gun dropped to his side. His shoes clumped on the pavement as he fled down the sidewalk and across the street. 

A joyful smile spread across Christina’s face. God had saved her life! He’d sent angels to protect her! That had never happened to her before in her life. Her eyes filled up with grateful tears. _Thank You, God!_ she praised silently. 

Andrew approached Christina, followed by Gloria. “Are you all right?” Leaning against the tree, Christina smiled and nodded. She took a deep breath as she wiped her face with the back of her hand. 

Andrew turned toward Richard. As he and Gloria approached the pilot, Tess and Monica joined them, all of whom shone not with the reflected light of the sun’s rays, but with the same Heavenly glow that bathed Andrew and Gloria. Andrew now wore a beige suit, and Tess, Monica, and Gloria wore flowing white gowns. Richard stared at them all, then gaped at his first officer, disbelief in his eyes. Christina hurried toward them, beaming, stopping in front of the porch steps. She gazed up at her husband, clasping her hands. _Please, God, reach his heart! Please!_

Richard shook his head. “I must be losing my mind. This is a hallucination.” He rubbed his face with both hands. 

Andrew smiled. “No, Richard, this is quite real.” Richard dropped his hands as Andrew spoke. “We are angels, Gloria and me, sent by God. So is Monica, here, who worked on your plane for such a brief time. And Tess.” 

Richard gaped at Andrew in shock. “You--my--my first officer--are an angel?” He gaped at Tess. "I remember you--your name is Tess! You gave me a lift home, the day of the disappearances. You ate with us a few nights ago, too. Are you an angel, too?" 

Tess nodded. “Indeed, I am, Richard Daly. And so is Andrew, here. God has assigned angels to you, to Christina, and to Ryan Whittaker, because He knew the three of you would need Him desperately in the days and years to come.” 

Richard, who had backed against the front door when Gloria and Andrew appeared, slowly approached the steps, shock still etched on his face. “Why is that? Does it--does it have anything to do with the disappearances?” 

“It has _everything_ to do with the disappearances,” Monica said softly. “God has evacuated His church to Heaven, along with every baby and small child. He has resurrected everyone who died, who knew Him in life, as well as every child who died before reaching the age of accountability.” She paused. “And the reason He did, Richard, is because the world is about to enter an extremely dangerous time in its existence. It will be the most dangerous period that man has ever faced. The Bible calls it the Tribulation.” 

Richard rubbed his forehead. Timothy’s words came back to him. “Are you saying there’s going to be a one-world government? With one man ruling the whole world?” 

“Indeed, there will be,” Andrew said. “Antonio Puccini is that man. He will be assisted by a religious leader whom the Bible calls the False Prophet, and--temporarily--by another religious leader who'll be the head of a one-world religion.” He paused. “When Puccini signs a seven-year treaty with Israel, the Tribulation will officially begin. It will last until Jesus returns to Earth to set up His kingdom.” 

Clasping her hands together, Tess nodded agreement. “God sent Timothy Hill into your life, Richard, because He wanted to spare you this turbulent time. Timothy heeded the call that God had placed upon the nation and the world when the events of September 11th happened, but you did not. Had you accepted the Lord into your heart before the Rapture, you would have been caught up to Heaven and spared what’s to come. But you _are_ still here, and so is your wife, and now you must make some life-and-death decisions, so your souls will survive to the Glorious Appearing of the Lord. Christina and Ryan have already made those decisions. It’s your turn now.” 

Monica nodded. “Richard, God has a personal message for you,” she said softly. “Your sister, Nicole, has been safe in His arms ever since she was murdered years ago. You may never understand why she was taken from you and your family, and in such a cruel way. But you can know that she has been with the Father from that time until now. And furthermore, she has been given a brand-new body. When the Lord resurrected all the dead believers, He gave them new bodies. Including Nicole.” 

Richard took a deep breath, and trudged down the steps. He clasped his wife against his chest for a long moment with trembling hands, kissing her. “Christina, I owe you an apology,” he mumbled. 

“I forgive you,” Christina whispered. “I love you, honey.” She gazed at him as a quizzical expression appeared on her face. "What did Monica mean about Nicole? Who is she?" 

"She was my sister. I'll tell you the rest later," he murmured. He was not looking forward to telling Christina about that part of his past, but he knew it was long past time she knew. Turning her loose, he turned toward Andrew. “Andrew, tell me. What’s going to happen? And what does God want me to do?” He looked from angel to angel. 

Gloria cleared her throat. “There will be a world government soon, and Puccini will run it, with the help of the False Prophet. It will be based in Europe. And for the first three-and-a-half years of the Tribulation, the pope will be the head of a worldwide religion that will deceive people. It will keep them from turning to the true God and rob them of their souls.” 

She paused to adjust her glasses. “There will be three and a half years of world peace. Puccini and Israel will sign a treaty guaranteeing Israel’s safety from the Arab world and her right to rebuild the Temple. Israel will do just that, and sacrifices will once more be offered there. And during that time, Richard, two men--lampstands and olive trees, they’re called in Revelation--will preach to the Israelis and warn them against the new government. They will be--and are--Moses and Elijah, returned to earth; they started their mission just recently. They have the power to turn water to blood and to keep rain from falling, and anyone who tries to harm them will be killed. At the middle of the seven-year period, Puccini will destroy the worldwide religion. Also, Moses and Elijah will be killed by Puccini’s men, only to rise again three days later. When they do, they will rise to Heaven.” 

Tess nodded. “Then Puccini will suffer a mortal head wound, only to be 'resurrected' a short time later. When that happens, he will be personally indwelt by Satan himself. Puccini will then enter the temple and force the priests to stop offering sacrifices. He will set up an idol and proclaim himself as God." She paused. "When that happens, many of the Israeli Jews will see him as the impostor he is, and they will flee to Petra, where they will stay until Jesus returns, three and a half years later. Puccini will seek to have them killed, but he will fail.” 

Andrew took it from there. “Very shortly after Puccini commits that act--the Bible calls it the ‘abomination of desolation’--war will break out in the Middle East. It will last for the duration of the seven-year period, and will become nuclear. The consequences will be so bad that if Jesus didn’t come, the earth would be totally destroyed and mankind would be wiped out. But He _will_ come, and He will inaugurate His kingdom, which will last a thousand years. Every believer who dies during the Tribulation will be resurrected, and every believer who survives the Tribulation will enter the thousand-year Kingdom as a mortal believer.” 

“And the believers who were caught up in the Rapture will return with Jesus and help Him rule the kingdom,” Monica added. “They will not be able to marry and have children, but they _will_ have important positions of leadership. And so will the believers who are resurrected at the end of the Tribulation.” She turned to Christina. “These new leaders will include your mother and Jessica.” Christina nodded, smiling. 

Richard shook his head, wincing. “How--how many of the believers will survive the Tri--Tribulation? What percentage?” 

A sad look creased Andrew’s face. “Only a minority,” he said. “The Bible predicts that a multitude too great to be numbered will be martyred for their faith by the new world government. First the new world religion will persecute believers, then Puccini will.” 

He paused. “You see, Richard, Puccini will set up a system forcing people to accept what the Bible calls a mark in their forehead or their right hand. It will be a computer implant imbedded in the skin, implanted by an injection. Those who don’t accept it will not be able to buy, sell, or hold jobs. Before that day comes, the world will be placed on a computerized cashless system--all buying and selling will be done by computer. Also, the whole world will be placed under a single currency--the Euro. The nations are getting ready to set those things up now. Those who receive the implant will be required to worship Puccini as God and to reject all other gods, including the true One.” 

Deep sadness welled in his eyes. “It will be an unpardonable sin to receive the implant--those who do will be separated forever from the true God. They will never see Heaven.” Christina shuddered, and Richard bit his lower lip. 

Andrew paused. “Puccini will make it a capital offense to refuse the implant--those who do so will be executed, most likely by guillotine. No true believer can accept the mark, so the vast majority of Tribulation believers will die martyrs’ deaths for refusing to take it. A minority, however, will survive to enter the Kingdom in their mortal bodies. Whether you, Christina, and Ryan will be among that number, Richard, only the Father knows. But whether you survive to see His coming or accept death as a martyr, you will be part of the Kingdom if you accept Jesus and refuse the mark. Those who die will receive new bodies and return to earth with the others.” 

The angel of death shook his head. “Unfortunately, the vast majority of people will believe a delusion, and refuse to accept God and let Him save them. They will accept the implant, and lose all hope of Heaven. That will break God’s heart, as you can imagine. He wants all men and women to come to Him, not condemn themselves to Hell.” 

“That is what God wants me to do?” Richard’s voice sounded choked. “To come to Him?” 

“Yes,” Monica said gently. “Accept His love. Trust Him to protect you and your loved ones. Call on Him for the strength and the courage you will need in the days to come. And--” She looked from Richard to Christina and back again. “--pray for Ryan and ask God to protect him, because he’s in a very dangerous situation. He knows the truth now and He’s accepted God’s love, and he knows, now, that Puccini is the Antichrist. But he works for Puccini as his private pilot, so he needs God to protect him and guide him as never before.” 

Richard and Christina looked at each other. “We will,” Richard promised. He bowed his head to pray. “Lord Jesus, come into my heart,” he said softly. “Forgive my stubborn pride, my refusal to believe You. Cleanse me of my sins and heal my pain. Amen.” 

His eyes shone when he lifted his head. Squealing with joy, Christina wrapped her arms around his neck. “Thank You, God,” she whispered, gazing up at the cloudless sky. “Thank You!” She hugged him tightly. 

Andrew approached them, beaming. “The angels in Heaven are rejoicing over you right now, Richard, and so are the angels standing right here.” He threw his arms around Richard and hugged him tightly. Monica, Tess, and Gloria followed suit. 

“Remember--” Andrew touched Christina’s shoulder. “--put Ryan in God’s hands. God loves him more than you ever can, and He has his hand on your brother. And remember that your mother and your daughter are together in Heaven, and your mother is praying for you constantly.” 

Christina smiled. “She is?” 

Andrew nodded. “She is. And you will see them again, soon. In the flesh.” 

Christina took a deep breath. “Then would you please give them my love when you return to Heaven?” 

“I sure will,” Andrew promised. “I will be going back and forth quite a bit in the years to come. As an angel of death, it’s my job to escort people who are dying to their new home.” He bit his lip. “If you hadn’t prayed to the Father, Richard, when you did, I would have had to escort your wife up there. I didn’t want to do that, and I’m very glad I didn’t have to.” 

Richard winced again. “So am I.” 

Andrew smiled. “My friend, Adam, is also an angel of death. It was his privilege to escort your sister Home when she was murdered. Although her life was not saved, as Christina’s was, she was given the peace of God in her last moments. Peace that enabled her to face death with courage. Her faith in God made that peace possible.” He paused. “I should add that it was my privilege to escort Home Christina’s mother. She had the same peace, Christina, and her immediate concern was for you and Ryan. When she arrived before the Father’s throne, the first request she made was that He comfort you.” He faced Christina as he spoke. 

Christina smiled as tears ran down her face. “Thank You, God,” she prayed. 

“Amen,” Monica said. 

Richard gazed at Andrew, then at Tess. “You said the Kingdom will last a thousand year. What will happen when it ends?” 

Tess glanced at the other angels. “Read the last 3 chapters of the Book of Revelation.” She smiled. “You’ll find your answer there.” 

Richard glanced at his wife and nodded acquiescence. “Has the Tribulation started yet?” He pressed the toe of his right shoe against the blades of grass, flattening several of them. Christina leaned against him. 

Tess shook her head. “Not yet, but soon.” She paused. “The treaty will be signed any day now.” 

**___________________________________**

Ryan and Kristen had been pouring over Bible passages for hours, ever since they had sat at Ryan’s kitchen table to study together. They’d started in the book of John, exploring the Christian faith. It hadn’t taken long for Kristen to realize exactly what being a Christian entailed. Prayer had become a key part of their time together in the past few hours. Now, they were going over the Book of Revelation, trying to understand what was literal and what was symbolic. Ryan had never felt so...complete in his life. 

He had God in his life, and he was studying the Bible with the most remarkable woman in the world. He felt completely content. Somehow, he felt closer to Kristen than he ever had before. She wasn’t just a romantic interest now--she was his sister in Christ, and they shared a bond that could never be broken. Somehow, he knew that this was the woman with whom God wanted him to spend the next several years. 

Just then, Ryan’s cell phone rang at his elbow. Kristen almost instinctively reached out to grab it, but Ryan gently put his hand on her arm. Kristen glanced at him, confused. Ryan felt his face redden. Kristen had almost answered his phone! If that were Richard, he’d never live down a woman answering his phone! 

Kristen suddenly understood, and burst out laughing. Ryan's blush deepened when he realized the phone was on its fourth ring. Kristen stifled her laughter as Ryan picked up the phone, clearing his throat. Resting his elbow on the table, he held the phone up to his ear. Kristen leaned both elbows on the table and used them to prop her chin. 

“Hello?” he said, barely able to mask his embarrassment. 

“Ryan,” came the all-too familiar smooth voice. “This is Antonio Puccini.” 

Ryan stiffened. He hadn’t spoken to Puccini since before he’d become a believer. “Mr. Pu...” he began, then, remembering previous orders and requests, corrected himself. “Uh, Antonio. What a...uh...surprise.” 

“A pleasant one, I hope,” spoke the man Ryan had come to know as the Antichrist. Staring at Kristen, as she lowered her left arm into her lap and pressed the fingers of her right hand against the table’s smooth surface, Ryan wasn’t sure what to say. It certainly _wasn’t_ a pleasant surprise, to say the least. 

Ryan was grateful that Puccini continued. “Good news! After several phone calls and a conference call, a date has been set for the signing of the 7-year peace treaty in Jerusalem. Exactly two days from now, we will sign the treaty in Jerusalem. I am counting on you to fly me there.” 

Ryan's mind was reeling. Two days? Two days was all there was left of time as they knew it, and then the clock would start ticking. Next to him, Kristen smiled sympathetically--she understood his turmoil. 

“Yes, sir,” was all Ryan could say, and even that made his stomach turn. Puccini didn't deserve that much respect. Even to address him by his first name seemed too respectful, but Ryan suspected if he wanted to keep his job--not to mention his life--for any length of time, he had to hide the truth from Puccini, and that included acting as though he respected him. This would be harder than he’d thought. Out loud, he asked, "The Oslo treaty?" 

"Yes. At last, it will be officially confirmed." Puccini's voice beamed his satisfaction. "I can count on you, then?" 

"Yes." 

“Good.” Puccini paused. “And I trust you will not plan any social engagements for that day.” 

Ryan froze. Social engagements? Puccini was commenting on his social life? Was he referring to the fact that Ryan and Kristen had been out on a date when the dome had collapsed? No, Ryan hadn’t mentioned that. Did Puccini know about his relationship with Kristen? Impossible! Or, was it? _Just what does Puccini know about my personal life?_ he wondered. 

“No,” Ryan said, forcing his voice to be calm. “No social engagements then.” 

“Very good,” Puccini said. “Good-bye, then. I will see you tomorrow.” 

“Bye,” was all Ryan could manage to say. His throat was dry; he was scared. Suddenly, he remembered something. Puccini was pure evil, yes, but God was stronger than Satan, and Puccini wasn't even fully indwelt by Satan yet. More important, Ryan had God on his side, and “greater was He in Ryan than he that was in the world,” Ryan knew. With that in mind, his fear nearly vanished. 

Ryan glanced at his watch. “It’s time to go, Kristen.” He rose to his feet. “My sister’s going to call me tonight, and I’ve got some things to do before then. I’ll get in touch with you afterward, OK?” 

“OK.” Rising to her feet, Kristen smiled, then concern creased her forehead. “Be careful, OK? Tomorrow, I mean. I couldn’t stand it if anything happened to you.” 

“Don’t worry.” Ryan touched her elbow. “Puccini doesn’t know I’m a believer yet, and I have no intention of letting him find out. I’ll be in touch with you soon.” 

Kristen led the way into the living room, where she picked up her purse. At the door, she paused. “Good night, Ryan. See you soon.” 

The door clicked as she closed it behind her. Loneliness surged in Ryan as he stared at it. If only she could have stayed! “If only...” he muttered, before he went to the bathroom to take a shower. 

**___________________________________**

That evening, Ryan glanced at his watch for the twelfth time. Christina was supposed to call him soon. She had said she had something to talk to him about, and Ryan had pretty much guessed what it was. His baby sister was a Christian, he knew; she likely wanted to share it with him. Well...he fully intended to surprise her with the knowledge he wasn't just her brother by blood now, but in Christ too. 

Christina had told him in an E-mail that had been in his box from the moment he'd gotten Internet access--maybe before--that she’d call him 6:00PM his time, on Thursday. It was exactly 5:58 his time now. Ryan glanced impatiently at the phone. It should ring any moment now...especially since he wasn't sure if her clock was set the same way as his. 

Exactly as he predicted, the phone rang a minute later. He answered on the first ring. “Hi, sis.” 

“Hi, Ryan.” Christina giggled. “Either you have caller I.D. or you got my E-mail.” 

“The latter,” Ryan remarked casually. He wanted to keep it as light as possible because it would get much more serious in the next few minutes. Leaning against the back of his couch, he leaned his elbow on its arm. The mattress sagged under him as he shifted position. 

“Good,” Christina said. There was silence for a moment. Ryan was tempted to tell her he knew what she wanted to talk about, but he didn't know if she yet knew about the presence of angels in their lives. 

Christina finally spoke. “Umm...Ryan, do you remember when we were all at dinner and Richard exploded when we started talking about God? And you wanted to know...” 

Ryan finished the sentence for her. “What Monica meant, when she said what you’d done would be beneficial to your mental health in the next few years?” 

“Yeah,” Christina said simply, kind of softly. “Well...I thought I’d explain that now. I became a Christian, Ryan.” Christina waited a beat, then said, “Now I know you probably don’t know what that means but...” 

Ryan interrupted her. “I do know what that means.” He paused. “I knew you’d turned religious, and I knew that Richard was giving you an hard time about it.” He could sense Christina's surprise as the creak of her chair told him she had sat up straight. _Well,_ he thought, _if she thinks that’s surprising, wait until she hears this!_ Out loud, he told her, “Well, so did I. Yesterday morning. I’ve accepted the Lord, too.” A broad smiled snaked across his face as he spoke. 

Silence. Then Christina shouted, “That’s great, Ryan!” Suddenly, her voice dropped to a mumble, and he heard a shout of joy from across the room. 

“What?” Ryan said. 

“That was Richard,” Christina said. “Actually, we already knew. Monica told us, yesterday. But it’s still good to hear it from you, Ryan.” 

Ryan shook his head, as his lower jaw dropped. He wasn’t sure what to think, let alone say. It didn’t surprise him that Monica had told them about his new faith--she had, after all, led him to the Lord. And since angels have superhuman powers, it stood to reason that Monica would be able to travel to the Daly home and back on short notice. But had that shout of joy actually come from Richard?! With the way he’d always resented any reference to God, Ryan knew there had to be a big change in Richard's heart. 

Suddenly, Christina seemed to change the subject. “Hey, Ryan, do you remember back when you and Richard were kids...how you used to wish you had the same birthday?” 

Ryan thought he heard a groan in the background...and he felt like groaning, too. Oh boy, did he ever remember it! When he and Richard had been about 11 years old, they’d spent hours in Richard’s backyard fort trying to figure out how to fool the fabrics of time and space to give them the same birthday. But why did Christina have to go and bring that up now? “Yeah,” he said, barely able to choke the word out. And he thought he’d been embarrassed when Kristen had nearly answered his phone! 

“Well…” Christina said slowly, then paused. Ryan fidgeted as he waited. (Did she enjoy torturing him or something?) “Let’s just say you’ve got your wish...in a roundabout way. You now have the same spiritual birthday.” 

Ryan was stunned. If he hadn’t already been seated, he would have collapsed onto the couch. The hand holding the cell phone dropped limply onto the soft mattress next to his hip. Richard had become a Christian?! Whoa! Ryan had not been expecting that! Richard--a _Christian_? As bad as things had become, angels must have been deeply involved in their lives, otherwise, his stubborn, atheistic brother-in-law never would have even listened to the gospel message, let alone accepted it. _The angels must have been working overtime on Richard!_ he thought. 

Ryan couldn’t manage to say any of this. Although his mind was whirring 100 miles per hour, his mouth was completely dumb--he could neither muster the strength to hold the cell phone back to his ear nor utter a sound. Finally, he managed to raise the phone back to his ear to squeak out a soft, “Wow.” 

Christina chuckled. “You’re stunned, aren’t you? Well, it’s true. As to how it happened--well, it's a long story. Guess you know about Monica…” 

“Yeah,” Ryan said, simply. “Amazing, huh? Angels all around us, and we didn't even suspect.” He swallowed hard, as he pressed the fingers of his left hand against the mattress, forming a dent beneath them. 

“I knew,” commented Christina. “I've known about Gloria since soon after the Rapture--I was just waiting for them to open up to you two.” She paused. “Richard’s new flight officer is an angel, too--he helped me make supper that evening, remember? And so is Tess.” 

“No!” Ryan laughed. “To think we’ve been surrounded by angels all this time, and we never knew it. God must have really determined to get our attention, to go to such lengths.” He grinned. Christina had just left herself wide open for one of his famous jokes. “You know, I've always heard that God’s a gentleman, but I never thought He’d follow the ‘ladies first’ rule.” 

They both burst into laughter. “Ryan!” Christina gasped. “Lay off the lame jokes!” 

“Lame?” Ryan echoed, in mock-anger. “ _Lame_? If my joke was lame, why are you laughing?” 

“Don't be silly,” Christina said, amidst giggles. When they’d stopped laughing, Christina said, “Well...I honestly don't know what to say. I called to talk to you about God and explain the plan of salvation to you, but now I don't know what to talk to you about. I’d forgotten that Monica was way ahead of me.” She giggled some more. 

Perfect timing! Ryan felt like he was going to explode if he didn’t tell someone how he felt around Kristen. “Well...” he said, "there is something going on here that you might like to know about...” 

“Oh?” Christina asked in her best curious-annoying-little-sister voice. “And what might that be?” 

“I’m dating someone,” Ryan said. He grinned broadly as he spoke. 

Before Christina could ask, Ryan began answering every question before she could ask it. “Her name’s Kristen Crossman, and she’s absolutely the most gorgeous woman on the face of the planet. She’s a real sweetheart and really nice, and to top it off, just last night she became a Christian.” 

“Whoa!” Christina’s voice squeaked. “You’re just full of surprises today, aren’t you?” 

“What's so surprising about that?” Ryan asked in a mock-offended voice. 

Ryan could almost hear Christina’s grin. “Because I didn’t even see that one coming. When did you meet Kristen, anyway? Where does she live; what does she do for a living? How long have you know her, now?” 

Ryan didn't even get a chance to answer before a clicking sound on the phone startled him. “Hey, what’s this I hear about you having a girlfriend now?” Richard asked. Evidently, he was on the extension. 

Ryan laughed. He hadn’t heard Richard say anything like that for...he couldn't remember how long. Richard wasn’t the same man he had been the last time Ryan had seen him. He was much more relaxed, much more at peace; Ryan could hear that just from listening to him. “Yep,” he said. “I met her the day of the Rapture, but we only started going out about a week ago. She lives in the same apartment complex as me. As for what she does for a living...” 

Pausing, Ryan pressed his lips together. How come they always asked the question he didn’t want to answer? How could he explain that his girlfriend was Puccini’s secretary? For a moment, he gazed down at the tufts of carpet lying flattened under his slipper-clad feet, wondering how best to explain. Well...he’d just have to tell them and let the conversation ride from there. “She’s President Puccini’s secretary,” he finally said, his voice flat and sad. 

“Ouch,” Richard said. 

“Should she be working so closely with him?” Christina asked, at the same moment, apprehension in her voice. Ryan shook his head. He should have expected those reactions, Richard's quick sympathy and Christina's nearly trademark mamma-bear protectiveness. 

“Hey, keep in mind Kristen's not the only one in that boat. I'm the guy's private pilot, remember?” Ryan reminded them. “Right now, we both need a lot of prayer.” 

“We're already praying for you, Ryan,” Christina said lovingly. Ryan felt tears well up in his eyes as she said that. She sounded so much like their mother when she spoke like that. To avoid crying, he swiftly changed the subject. 

“I’m flying Puccini to Israel again tomorrow, for the treaty signing. It’s scheduled for the day after. Everyone’ll be watching it, all over the world.” 

“Yes. We heard about that,” Richard said. “You know what that means, don't you?” 

“Yeah.” Ryan bit his lower lip. “It means the Tribulation starts, day after tomorrow. Fortunately, the first seal judgment is the arrival of the Antichrist. We’ll probably have a time of peace before things really start up.” He rested his left hand in his lap as he spoke. 

“Right,” Christina said. “Three and a half years, to be exact.” 

Suddenly, a computerized voice spoke. “Your card has 2 minutes left.” 

“Hello?” Ryan said. “Christina? Richard? You there?” 

“We’re here,” they said in unison. 

“The calling card’s almost out of time,” Christina said. “I better go.” 

“All right,” Ryan said. “Talk to you later. Bye.” 

The phone call ended. After Ryan hung up, he sunk down in the couch. Tomorrow would be a long day, and Ryan really didn’t have much that he had to do for the rest of the day. He’d have to go to bed early tonight, but not just yet. With a smile, he rose to his feet and strolled towards the front door. Maybe he could pay Kristen a visit now. 

**___________________________________**

Two days later, in Israel, a crowd assembled on the Temple Mount. Ryan stood back in the crowd, cellular phone in hand. Several cameras had been set up in the background. Beads of sweat dribbled down his face--he reached up to wipe them off with his sleeve, then inserted his left hand into one of his pants pockets. With the right, he clutched the cell phone. Several fleecy clouds drifted overhead. 

President Puccini stood behind a podium, sandwiched between Jacob Barak and Ishmael Mozenrath. Dayan stood to Barak’s left. Puccini patted the side of his pants with his right hand as he waited. Smiles creased Barak’s face; Mozenrath stood impassively. All four wore immaculate business suits and microphones attached to their collars. In the background, the Italian prime minister stood in a line with several other dignitaries. 

“You watching?” Ryan spoke into the phone. 

“Richard just turned the TV to CNN,” Christina answered. “Yes! It’s on.” 

Puccini raised his hands for silence. The crowd quieted. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, “this is one of the most meaningful and history-making events we shall ever have the good fortune to witness! This is the day that will, at long last, bring peace to the Middle East.” He paused to glance at the two men next to him, first Barak, then Mozenrath. “In a minute, the three of us will sign a treaty that will allow Israel to live in peace and safety, to rebuild her temple at long last, and that will allow the Palestinian Authority to have its own state.” He paused. “Until now, it was not possible for the PA to have a sovereign state, because Israel was in a constant state of siege from suicide bombers. But now that the terrorists have, at long last, been quieted, the day has come for the Palestinians to have their long-promised state.” Everyone burst into applause, except Ryan. 

_Little do you know,_ he thought, as a queasy sensation rose in his gut. He fidgeted, shifting his weight from one foot to the next. A pebble rolled from underneath his left shoe. 

“This treaty will be good for a period of seven years,” Puccini went on. “During that time, peacekeepers from the European Union and the United Nations will be stationed in Israel, to see to it that hostile factions from either side do not attempt to start war or commit acts of terrorism, for any reason. At the end of the seven years, we will review the treaty and see what changes, if any, need to be made before we renew it for another period.” 

Puccini picked up a piece of paper. As he read the terms of the seven-year treaty, the crowd listened attentively. Ryan held the phone to his ear, just in case Richard or Christina had anything to say. A cool breeze picked up, caressing his perspiring face. It felt good. 

Puccini hurried toward a table set near the podium, the treaty in his right hand. As he laid the treaty on the table, he beckoned to the three other men. Barak, Dayan, and Mozenrath approached. 

“You first, Ishmael.” Puccini handed the pen to Mozenrath, who bent over to sign the treaty. Ryan wondered what was going through the PA chairman’s mind as he did. Surely nothing good. 

Barak was next. Smiling, he signed the treaty as everyone watched. _Barak, you’re making a treaty with the devil, and you don’t even know it!_ Ryan stifled a groan. _If only you knew!_

Barak handed the pen to Dayan, who bent down to sign the treaty. When Dayan finished, he handed the pen to Puccini, who signed his own name. 

When Antonio laid the pen down, the audience burst out into thunderous applause. Barak and Mozenrath shook hands, with Barak and Dayan beaming as they did so. Mozenrath neither smiled nor frowned, but looked expressionless. 

“Did you get that?” Ryan asked Christina and Richard, as the clapping subsided. 

“Yeah,” Richard said. “I have a lot to learn about this Bible prophecy stuff, but I have an uneasy feeling about all this.” 

“So do I.” Christina’s voice shook. “This treaty will only bring a temporary peace. Then all-out war will break out.” 

“It sure will.” Ryan pressed his lips into a tight line. 

A little toward the right of the assembled crowd, four angels watched with grim expressions. Ryan nodded toward them and smiled. 

Tess folded her arms across her chest and shook her head. “Well, angel babies, this is it.” She sighed. “The Tribulation is now in progress.” 

Andrew shook his head. “I feel sad for the people here, Tess. If only they would turn to God and accept His mercy, He would make peace! But they insist on doing things their way, as people have down through the millennia.” 

“Yes, and the consequences will be catastrophic.” Tess sighed. “This will cost billions of people not only their lives, but their very souls.” 

Monica shook her head. “We’ve got our work cut out for us. We’re going to be quite busy for the next 7 years.” 

“Yes, Miss Wings. _Very_ busy.” Tess glanced upward as a dove flew over the Temple Mount, cooing softly. “We will be back to minister to the Dalys and to Ryan in the near future, but for now, the Father has other work for us to do. Let’s go.” 

“Why the near future?” Gloria pushed her glasses up the bridge of her nose as she spoke. 

“Because, Gloria, the Father has a ministry for them, and they’re going to need angelic help to do it successfully.” 

Following the dove, the angels disappeared into the sunlight. Ryan watched them as they left. A grateful smile spread across his face as he reached over his neck to scratch his upper back. 

_Thank You, God,_ he prayed silently. _Thank You for sending us those angels. And for Kristen!_ He smiled. _I want to get a present for Kristen, but I won’t do it just yet. I’ll wait till I get home. I need to decide what to do in my new relationship, too._ He squared his shoulders and turned his attention back to the ceremony.


	14. Epilogue

Ryan stepped out of the doorway onto the sidewalk. He’d been doing a lot of thinking and finally, he’d begun to put those thoughts into action. Despite the fact that the entire world was scheduled to start going crazy soon, he wasn’t thinking about that at all. Instead, he was focusing his thoughts on the woman who had completely captured his heart. He reached up to wipe the beads of sweat rolling down his forehead. _So hot!_ he thought. 

Two steps forward took him to the edge of another sidewalk. As his shoes clomped on the pavement, he glanced at the crowd of passer-bys strolling, striding down the sidewalk alongside him. Jerusalem was really not much different than any other large city he’d been in, and that made it extremely easy for him to handle himself. Glancing both ways, he waited until a taxi was close by. Briefly standing on tiptoe, he threw his arm into the air to flag down the cab, waving at it quickly. As he did so, his cellular phone rang. 

The taxi pulled up to the curb, and Ryan flung open the door and climbed inside. A quick mutter of “Ben-Gurion Airport, please,” to the cab driver set him driving, and Ryan answered his cell phone. 

“Ryan Whittaker,” Ryan said, holding the phone against his ear. 

“Hey, sweetheart,” came a familiar voice. Ryan just about melted. For less than a second he was unable to say a word...but he came to himself so quickly he doubted it was noticeable. He rested his left hand on his lap and leaned back against the passenger seat. The air conditioner hummed, blowing cool air on his sunburned face. How good it felt! 

“Kristen!” he exclaimed. “Good to hear from you, honey.” Ryan barely hesitated on that last word, and when he said it, it sounded natural. Ryan couldn't help but grin. The awkward stage in their relationship was _definitely_ over. “How are you?” 

“Pretty good,” she said. “Going crazy with you over there, though.” Ryan could hear a slight laugh in her voice, so he chuckled. 

“I miss you too,” he said, still grinning. “And don't go _too_ crazy...it's my job to be the nutty one, you know.” Kristen burst into laughter. 

“Not that kind of crazy,” Kristen said. “Crazy as in 'can’t-concentrate-or-do-my-job-right-because-I-miss-you-too-much' kind of crazy.” 

“Well,” Ryan said, still teasing. “As sweet as that is, don’t go that kind of crazy either. I don’t want you to be too frustrated when I get back.” 

Kristen giggled again. “You’re still being silly.” 

“Yeah.” Ryan chuckled. “But seriously, I should be back in a few more hours. Hang in there.” The joking mood hadn’t vanished completely...yet there was something else present. Ryan felt the same overwhelming feeling of belonging as he talked to her. 

“I’ll try,” she said softly. She felt it, too. 

“Me, too,” he said. 

They sat in silence for several minutes. No words needed to be exchanged. Ryan felt comforted just knowing that she was on the other end of that open line. 

Suddenly, he felt the car jolt to a stop. As Ryan looked up, he saw the airport looming around him. “I’m at the airport now,” Ryan said into the phone, even as he pulled his wallet out of his pocket with his free hand. He struggled to open it as quickly as possible. 

“That’s good,” Kristen said, her voice laden with emotion. Ryan had trouble concentrating on anything but Kristen, as he opened the wallet and yanked out a large bill. 

“I can’t wait to see you. I’ll head straight to your place when I get back.” As he spoke, Ryan handed the bill to the driver. He was amazed at his ability to do that despite how distracted he was. Ryan climbed out of the taxi. 

As Ryan strode through the crowded airport, he realized he wouldn’t be able to take the open phone with him into the cockpit. “Uh, Kristen,” he said, softly, regretfully. “I...uh...well...I'm afraid I've gotta go.” 

“Oh,” Kristen said, flatly. Ryan could tell she didn’t want to hang up either. 

“I should be back in a couple hours,” he promised. “And, when I get there, I have a question I want to ask you.” 

“All right,” Kristen said. Ryan couldn't help but wonder why she wasn’t acting curious about the question. Oh well...that only meant it would come as more of a surprise to her. He forced a smile on his face and a cheerful tone into his voice. “I’ll see you in a few hours.” 

“See you, then,” Ryan said. Then, after a second, he added, “I love you.” 

Kristen’s voice sounded choked. “I love you, too.” 

“Bye,” Ryan said regretfully. 

He could barely hear Kristen's whispered “bye,” followed by the click of her hanging up. Ryan clicked his own phone shut and shoved it into his pocket. While his hand was in his pocket...it bumped against a little cardboard box. A smile crossing his face, Ryan reached deeper into his pocket and grabbed it. 

Pulling the box out, Ryan opened it. For a long moment, he gazed down at the diamond ring he’d bought at the jewelry store he had just visited a half-hour before. _So much for waiting till I get home,_ he thought wryly. _I took one look at that jewelry store, and decided I couldn't wait another minute!_

A broad smile snaked across his face. He had a question for Kristen, all right, and he could only pray that her answer would be yes. Outside the terminal, a dove cooed softly as it flew toward the sun.   
  
  
  


**THE END**

©2002 by Robin L. Day and KathyG

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you want to learn more about the end times and what lies ahead for the Body of Christ and for the world, go to http://zorrothefox2000.webs.com/mywebsites/christianwebsites.html. On it, you will find an extensive list of links to Christian Web sites, many of which refer to end-times prophecy.
> 
> If you'd like to read my testimony, go to http://zorrothefox2000.webs.com/mywebsites/mytestimony.html.


End file.
